Death Has Its Price
by MaverickLover2
Summary: Is Bart Maverick really dead? His best friend, Doc Holliday, believes it. Why doesn't his brother?
1. Prologue

Death Has Its Price

Prologue

"I'm sorry to inform you, Mr. Maverick, that your brother is dead."

He heard the words, but they had no meaning. Bart dead? It couldn't be. He'd know it, deep inside. There would be pain, and agony, and an insufferable empty space where Bart was supposed to be. Instead everything was as it had been before, ever since he was nothing more than a toddler himself, and he'd met his 'little brother' for the first time. So small, so fragile, momma had let him hold the baby during their initial meeting. It was love at first site for Breton Joseph Maverick and his brother, Bartley Jamison Maverick.

He'd been his protector and defender ever since. When Momma was alive he'd watched the baby for hours, learning to feed and care for Bart before he could care for himself. After Momma died he was mother and father both to his brother, bandaging the skinned knees and soothing the fevered brows, when Pappy was either too disconsolate or out too late to do so. He'd saved Bart from an unjustified hanging and more than one gunshot wound, and nursed him through so many beatings and broken bones he'd lost count. Then the little man that stood before him had the audacity to tell him his brother was dead. And Bret hadn't even been there.

But it wasn't just the coroner. It was Bart's good friend, Doc Holliday, his arm still in a sling, his face and body still black and blue, that agreed with the little man. Bret heard the words, but they made no sense at all. Avalanche? Days long search? Dead horse? Bart's hat, battered almost beyond recognition? The words just kept coming, and he finally could take no more, and bolted from the room. Every. word. an. arrow. that. pierced. his. heart.

Bart Maverick was still out there somewhere, alive, waiting for his brother to find him and bring him home. And by God, if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth, Bret Maverick would do just that.


	2. Say Good-Night, Gracie

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 1 – Say Good-Night, Gracie

"Do you really think this will work?"

Bart Maverick was talking to Doc Holliday and, as usual, Bart was skeptical of Doc's plan.

"He won't believe me," Doc explained. "Maybe if I can show him I'm really Bart Maverick he'll believe that. It's worth a try, isn't it?"

Bart had to agree. One particular cowhand had been badgering Doc for days, insisting he was Doc Holliday and should be more than willing to prove it if he wasn't. Doc kept telling the man he was Bart Maverick, but the cowhand wouldn't believe him. Since this was the last night they were going to be in Apache Junction and they both wanted a peaceful, pleasant evening, Bart was willing to give almost anything a try. Including swapping wallets so Doc would have the requisite 'proof.' Bart's wallet was engraved 'Bart Maverick' on the outside, and he carried several personal pieces of mail with him, one of which was a letter from his brother Bret detailing the current situation in Montana. And then there was the lone picture, an old photo of his deceased wife, Caroline. Bart might have been willing to swap identities with Doc for an evening, even wallets, but not the picture of Caroline. That had to go with its real owner.

So when Maverick put Doc's wallet, with its engraved 'J.H. Holliday' on the inside, in his coat pocket, it still held Bart's money and Caroline's picture. "I'll be glad to get out of this place," the gambler grumbled, "and get on to Mountain City."

"That makes two of us," the gunslinger agreed. "Even if we do have to ride through the Superstition Mountains to get there. And with any luck at all we'll leave these idiots here in the desert. If this was anyplace other than Arizona, I'd just shoot the damn fool and get it over with."

Bart shook his head. "Doc, you promised, no killing."

"You're a pain in the ass, Maverick, you know that?"

A smile from the card sharp, who'd been doing very well for himself since he and Doc left on this trip. "My brother would agree with you."

"I saw the letter. What's Bret have to say?" the gunslinger inquired.

"Some good, some bad. Georgia's not doin' real well, and Beau's a mess. They finally got a new sheriff and he's not a big fan of gamblin' halls, but there's not much he can do about 'Mavericks.' It's been there in one form or another for so long no one can imagine the town without it. Jody and Beck are finally thinkin' about settin' a wedding date, and four more businesses have moved into town just since Bret's been there. He's gettin' ready to leave soon, should be in Arizona around the first of next month. In other words, not much."

By the time Bart was finished, Doc was exhausted. "I'd hate to read a letter from him that had a lot to say. Is he always that wordy?"

Bart had to chuckle. "Most of that's from me. You kinda hafta read between the lines with Bret's letters. He says a lot with less words."

"Thank God," Doc answered. "Well, are you ready? Here, give me that thing, just for tonight. Everybody knows Doc doesn't carry a derringer."

Bart handed Doc the shoulder holster with his Remington in it. He had a point, Doc was well known for his disdain of small guns. "If you're gonna kill 'em, kill 'em," was the standard he lived by, and a Colt was much more efficient at that. It was odd seeing his good friend wearing his shoulder holster, but it added to the illusion provided by the switched wallets.

"Wanna trade hats?" Bart asked innocently.

"Not goin' that far," Doc answered him. "If I die tonight, I'm dyin' with my own hat on my head."

A cold chill went up the gambler's spine. "Don't talk about dyin.' Bad luck."

"Thought you didn't believe in luck?"

"I don't when it comes to poker. Can't say that about anything else."

"Aha," Doc remarked. "Good to know. Are we ready?"

"I've been ready for an hour," Bart answered. "Just waitin' for you."

"Then let's go raise some hell, gamblin' man."

XXXXXXXX

Even though Doc's intent was to 'raise some hell,' the evening passed peacefully. The cowhand who'd been riding Doc pretty hard all week finally backed off when shown the 'Bart Maverick' wallet and Bret's latest letter, and a newfound respect for the real Bart Maverick set in, since he was now assumed to be John Henry Holliday, D.D.S. Bart didn't care, but he left the whiskey drinking to his friend and stuck with coffee.

"You're gonna ruin my image," Doc complained.

"Too bad," was the answer he got back. "I'm not drinkin' just to make you happy."

Doc borrowed Bart's puppy-dog expression and trained it on its owner. "You don't love me anymore," Doc complained.

"Nope. Never did."

Finally, even Doc yawned. "One more hand, and I'm done."

"Why Mr. Maverick, I thought gamblers could play poker all night."

"And I thought Doc Holliday didn't talk much."

"I don't. I've killed people for less." Bart smirked at Doc, one of Doc's trademark expressions.

"Say, that's good. I didn't know you paid that much attention to me. " Doc sounded surprised.

"Gamblers read people, even you know that. Which means we pay attention to them." Bart threw four chips into the pot. "Raise two-hundred."

Doc matched the bet. "There's yours and two more."

Bart's eyebrow shot up. "Say, I thought this was a friendly game."

"Whatever gave you that idea?"

"You." Bart threw two cards down on the table. "I'm in. I'll take two."

Doc circled the table, handing out cards. When he got back around to himself, he said, "Dealer takes one."

Uh-oh. Bart knew that Doc wasn't big on bluffing, and that made him take another look at his cards. Ace's full over eights. Bluffing or not, Doc was gonna have to go a good distance to beat his hand. "Okay, gambler. Your two and four more."

"Huh." It was a sound more than a word. Doc did it often when he was thinking. Just what did the gambler have? Not a time to throw good money after bad. "Call."

Bart laid down his hand and Doc threw his cards on the table, face down, in disgust. "Damn, you do that more than any man has a right to."

"Don't wanna get burned, don't play with matches," Bart offered.

"Good thing we're friends, or I'd accuse you of cheating," Doc stated. The rest of the players at the table froze and got dead quiet. Bart Maverick had just accused Doc Holliday of cheating!

Bart laughed and immediately put everyone at ease. He and Doc were well versed in harassing each other unmercifully, much to the distress of the other players in the game. And it was even more amusing right now, when everyone around them was thoroughly confused as to who was actually whom.

As threatened, however, Doc was done for the night. "That's all – I've lost enough to you tonight. I'm goin' to bed. You comin'?"

"Nope. Gonna play a while more. Tomorrow morning?"

"Yep," Doc answered. "I'll be ready when you are." He got up and started to leave the saloon when he suddenly remembered the exchange they'd made earlier. Since they were leaving together it really didn't matter; they could trade wallets in the morning. "Night Doc," he told Bart.

"Night, Bart," Maverick answered.


	3. To Hell and Back

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 2 – To Hell and Back

"You know what we forgot?"

"No, what?"

"We forgot to trade wallets."

Bart thought about it for a minute. Doc was absolutely right. "I guess you just have to be Bart Maverick for a while longer."

"Alright by me," Doc answered. "Half the world's not lookin' to kill Bart Maverick."

"On a good day, you mean," the gambler replied.

"I do, indeed."

They'd been riding since morning, up into and across the Superstition Mountains. The horses weren't having an easy time of it; the terrain was rocky and difficult to traverse. Up and down, up and down, slow and treacherous going. They would have ridden around, but the long way added three days to an already difficult trip.

"Remind me next time we come through this way, not to," Bart remarked. All around them were rocks, rocks, and more rocks, along with boulders, stones, pebbles and nature's own gravel. To top it off, distant thunder had been heard all morning, and the constant rumbling had set everyone's nerves on edge. They'd been climbing in altitude for almost an hour and the trail got steadily steeper. If it didn't level soon, they'd have to get off and walk the horses.

They were just beginning to contemplate that possibility when a reverberation unlike any other began near the top of the mountain range. At first they both thought it was thunder and paid little attention, but the sound continued unabated for a few moments before the mountains actually started shaking. By that time, both riders recognized the noise for what it was – a rockslide. They were caught – there was nowhere to go. All of the debris and sediment one could imagine started bounding wildly down the mountain until the stones and pebbles turned into rolling boulders.

Doc was the first to be felled by the mountain's disintegration. A large boulder crashed into a pine tree and split it in half; as it fell the shaft knocked Doc off his horse and rendered him unconscious, possibly saving his life. Bart's horse tried to wheel out of the way and fell, taking Bart down with her. Another crushing boulder hit the gambler full force in the back, plunging him forward with the smaller tree branches and rocks being thrown down the mountain. He fell and rolled with the dust and debris, breaking his shoulder when he landed against a tree that was too big to be uprooted. He kept on falling, twisting this way and that, unable to grab onto anything to stop his descent with the rest of the mountainside.

Already disabled due to the shoulder injury, he was tossed around like so much trash. He screamed in pain when the radius and ulna in his right arm snapped; he could hear the bones as they broke. Nature stepped in and took pity on him, slamming his head into a large rock and knocking him unconscious. He continued to roll and bounce downhill, turning him upside down and back over, breaking his collarbone and three ribs, then fracturing his right foot. The rockslide swept him on down the mountain, hundreds of yards past the body of his horse. It finally deposited him in a large gully that ran next to the tree line, almost entirely obscured by broken branches and debris.

Sometime after the boulders stopped spinning and bouncing Doc's horse made its way back to the gunslinger and waited for him to regain consciousness. Because Doc hadn't rolled as far as Bart and had avoided most of the rocks and boulders coming down the mountain, the only thing broken was his left arm. He was going to be black and blue from head to foot, but he was relatively unscathed otherwise. When he finally started to emerge from the stupor the tree caused the first thing he thought of was his traveling companion and he yelled "Bart!"

There was no answer from Bart, but Doc's horse whinnied. The gunman slowly and carefully succeeded in getting on his feet, realizing quickly that his arm was broken. Somehow he managed to pull himself up on his mount, his arm hanging limply at his side, and they made their way at a relative snail's pace down the mountainside. About fifty feet away Doc spotted Bart's horse, lying dead under several large boulders and a tree. There was no sign of her rider.

Holliday clung to his horse with his one functional arm and yelled again. "Bart Maverick!" The only sound on the mountain was pebbles and stones rolling down the hill. His arm was killing him, and his entire body had begun to throb with the beating he'd taken. The only way to rescue his friend, if he was still alive, was to leave and bring people back to search for the missing man. Doc continued back down the mountain, examining everything he could see for any signs of life. There were none.

As Doc tried to make his way back to civilization, Bart lay broken and unconscious in the gully. He stayed that way for what seemed like hours while Doc rode to Apache Junction and gathered a search party to go back out. The doctor there took one look at his arm and declared that he wasn't going anywhere on horseback if he ever wanted to use that appendage again, so Doc was forced to explain to the men participating in the rescue mission approximately where Bart was the last time he'd been seen.

Some ten or fifteen men made the trip back to the Superstition Mountains and searched the area Doc described. They found Bart's horse, along with his hat, and removed his saddlebags from the corpse. They searched everywhere a man could possibly have gotten to, all with no signs of life. And then they searched some more.

The group stayed out well past dark, calling and checking in every crevice and crack in the earth they could find, all to no avail. Finally they were forced to give up the quest and go back to town. When the search party returned empty handed Doc made them promise to resume the next day and look again, knowing full well that the hunt was probably useless. He had the presence of mind to have one of the men send a telegram to Montana, advising Bret there'd been an accident and to come to Arizona post-haste. The doctor wanted to give him something for the pain but Doc asked for and got a bottle instead, then slowly made his way back to the hotel. When he pulled out his wallet to pay for the room he realized that he still had Bart's identification, along with his saddlebags, and he went quietly to his new room and proceeded to get exceedingly drunk to numb the pain. When he couldn't physically feel the hurt any longer, he still felt the mental anguish, and Doc Holliday wept for his lost friend.


	4. Lost and Found

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 3 – Lost and Found

It wasn't the first time she'd heard a rumbling from the top of the mountains. Some of those reverberations turned into rock slides, some of them didn't. They all started out sounding the same, and the one she'd heard this morning was no different. But this one turned into a full-blown avalanche of boulders, and the noise resonated through the valley below at a deafening level. She wasn't supposed to go up to the mountains after one had occurred, but something told her she was needed this time. So she set out up Canyon Peak and rode for a half mile or so before she heard something that sounded like . . . . she wasn't sure what.

Somewhere between a moan and a howl, it didn't sound human at first. It wasn't very loud, but she could tell the area it was coming from. Against her better judgment, she turned her horse in the direction of the sound and followed it down the gully that became the creek bed in the spring.

Amelia, or Amy as her friends and family called her, always had her own mind. When everyone around her was marrying and starting a family, she decided that life wasn't for her, and at twenty-four she'd already been called an 'old maid' behind her back. She looked like nobody else in her family; they were all tall and dark, even her mother, and she was petite and blonde, with amber-gold eyes and dimples. She lived in pants instead of dresses and rode her horse bareback more often than not.

The further down the creek bed she rode, the louder the disturbance became until at last she could tell it was a human noise and not an injured animal. Once that realization hit her, she began listening for the sound in earnest. Whoever it was coming from must be in a lot of pain, and the faster she could find them, the faster something could be done about it.

She kept looking for a mount of some kind, but no horse was in view. So she followed the moaning, around the bend and down the hill, until it became loud enough that she knew she'd located the source. She pulled Cooper's head up sharply and he stopped and waited for her to jump down, the way she always did. Instead she sat there for a minute, to listen before climbing down. There it was again, and she finally slid off the horse and hurried to the creek bed.

What she saw startled and sickened her. A man, not too much older than her, who looked like he'd been twisted into knots and then untied and flung on the ground, half buried in leaves, branches, and rocks. She could tell from the funny angle he was positioned in that his collarbone and probably his shoulder were broken, and his right arm looked shattered, too. With that much upper body damage, who knew what his insides looked like, or if he would even survive. But he was alive now, as she could tell from the moans that continued to emanate from him. She should hurry and go get a wagon and some cowhands to help transport him, but she hesitated for just a minute and looked at his face.

Battered and bruised as he appeared to be, he had a handsome face, and he was tall and thin. Dark-haired, like her family, with elegant hands and long, slim fingers. "Hold on, beautiful," she told him and swung back up on Cooper. "Come on, bud, he needs our help," and she urged her horse forward and back down the mountain.

XXXXXXXX

She brought Pete and Jess and Sandy Malone with her, with plenty of blankets and a full canteen. Before she left the ranch she sent Wally to Junction Flats to fetch Doc Greeley and get him back to the house as quick as possible. When they got to her mystery man Pete took one look and decided the only way to get him out was to carry him – so they tied blankets together and made a 'sling'. It wasn't easy to lift him out of the gully without some jostling – which brought a substantial amount of moaning and groaning.

"I'd say he's broke up pretty good," volunteered Jess.

They all nodded in agreement. "Musta been caught in the rock slide to look this beat up," Pete observed.

"Gonna take a long time to heal," Sandy spoke up last. "If he lives."

Amy took a good look at the unconscious man as the three cowhands lowered him carefully into the bed of the wagon. He really was a fine-looking man, despite the dirt, dust, bruises, and blood. "Oh, he'll live," she told the friends helping her. "Let's get him home."

It was slow going all the way back to the ranch. She drove the wagon as carefully as she could, but every time she hit a rock or a rut that slid the wheels around the road he moaned. Jess and Sandy rode on ahead to warn Big Gage Stanhope, Amy's father, what kind of a guest he was going to have in his home. That way the downstairs bedroom could be readied; there was no way to get the injured man up the stairs to any other room. Pete stayed with Amy and the stranger just in case a problem arose. By the time they got back to the ranch it was almost dusk. Gage and the boys were waiting for her to arrive.

"Daughter, what kind of a wounded animal have you brought home this time?" her father asked as she pulled the wagon up to the front door.

"Not an animal at all, daddy," she answered brightly.

Big Gage took a look in the wagon. "Musta got caught in the rock slide. Doesn't seem too dangerous, the shape he's in. Doc Greeley should be here any minute." He turned to his ranch hands. "Let's get him inside, boys, real gentle like. He's gonna be in enough pain as it is."

Pete lowered the wagon gate in back and the four men each grabbed a corner of the hastily made 'sling' and carried the stranger inside. Sometime between the ride home and being removed from the wagon the man had slipped back into unconsciousness because there was no more moaning.

They'd no sooner gotten him into bed than Doc Greeley came riding up, surprised at being sent for by the Stanhope's. Once he got a look at the patient he understood. "Amy, get me some towels or rags or something, and some hot water. And send your father in here – I may need him to help me with this shoulder."

"Is it broken?" Amy questioned.

"Oh, yeah," the doctor answered. "And probably needs to be popped back into the socket, too. That's why I'll need your dad. Now skedaddle, and get me what I asked for."

Amy scrambled for towels and put water on the stove to heat. Before she could get everything together, she heard a God-awful shriek come out of the bedroom and knew the stranger's shoulder was back in the socket, where it was supposed to be. Once the water was hot, she took it and the towels into the room and was surprised to find the man's eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. His teeth were clenched and he was trying not to let out another yell as Doc attempted to set his broken arm.

Her father turned to her almost as soon as she re-entered the room. "Amy, go get me the whiskey bottle in the front room – it's over by the fireplace. And hurry, honey." That wasn't a good sign, and she was well aware of just what it meant. The pain was about to be so intense that whiskey was needed to dull it. She scrambled for the bottle and found it just where Gage left it the night before. Hastening back to the spare room, and passing the bottle over, her father didn't bother with a glass, just tipped the bottle back and poured it down the poor man's throat. He coughed and gagged, but Gage kept right on pouring, knowing the discomfort from the forced drinking was far less than the agony about to be endured. Finally he stopped and glanced back at his daughter. "Go on outta here, Amy. This could get ugly."

She did as instructed and went back out to the pantry. Even there she could hear the scream of agony - loud and clear before abruptly stopping. Either the injured man had passed out from the pain or – she didn't want to entertain the other possibility. While she was considering what had occurred to cause the reaction Pete emerged from the room and brought something over to her. It was a wallet, filthy and tattered from the trip down the mountain, but she opened it just the same. She needed to know who she'd rescued – and when she saw the name engraved on the inside flap, she gasped and dropped it as if the leather itself was hot to the touch. Her brief glimpse was enough to scare her to death – and almost did so. On the inside flap was engraved, in quite an elegant script, 'J.H. Holliday.'


	5. John Henry Who?

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 4 – John Henry Who?

"There's no other way to put this – he's just a mess." Doc Greeley was not one to sugar-coat the truth. So when he pronounced someone 'a mess,' they truly were.

"What did you find, Doc?" Gage asked the question, although Amy wanted to hear the list of injuries just as much.

"Broken collarbone, fractured shoulder, broken arm twice, God knows how many broken ribs, and a broken foot. Concussion, too. In other words, he's broken. Lucky to be alive – must have been right in the middle of that mess on the mountain this morning. Gonna be in pain for a long time. This isn't the first time he's been banged up, either. I found a lotta scars – bullet holes, knife wounds; been knocked around a lot for somebody so young. Any idea who he is?"

Amy wasn't thrilled to reveal their guests identity, but she wasn't going to lie to Doc Greeley and her father, either. She handed the wallet to the doctor, who looked at it, shook his head, and gave it to Gage. Her father took one look and threw it on the table in disgust.

"I want him out, now," Stanhope decreed.

"If you move him right now you'll kill him," Doc explained.

"Don't much care. Not gonna keep a stone-cold killer in my house. Around my daughter? No, sir. He's got to go."

"Daddy, we can't do that," Amy protested.

"Gage, you can't put the man out in the shape he's in right now."

"Doc, I won't have him here. He's got no compunction about killing, and he's got the morals of an alley-cat. Nobody here needs to be around that."

"I understand, Gage, but can't you give it a few days, just until he can get over the worst of it? He's not gonna cause much trouble, the shape he's in. I just finished patchin' him up, I sure'd hate to see all that work go to waste."

Gage Stanhope was silent for a few minutes while his daughter and the doctor waited for his decision. When he finally spoke it was with a firm resolve. "Alright, but just for a few days. As soon as he can be moved, Doc, I want to know. I don't want him here any longer than necessary. You both understand? There'll be no arguing with this decision." He stopped for a minute, then thought of something else and picked the wallet back up. "Let's keep this between the three of us. Don't need every damn fool gunslinger in the territory here to challenge the man. Agreed?"

Two heads nodded 'yes' in unison. "Thanks, Daddy."

Doc Greeley concurred. "Mighty Christian of you, Gage. I guarantee he can't give you any problems, the shape he's in."

"I'll hold you to that, Doc. Just remember to let me know when we can get him out of here."

Her father left and Amy turned to the doctor. "Is he really that bad? It could kill him to move him?"

"Amy, honey, I didn't lie to your father. It could really kill him to move him right now."

She looked at Doc Greeley thoughtfully. "Well then, we won't. But I don't think we should call him 'Doc.' Do you know what the 'J.H.' stands for?"

"Yup. John Henry. John Henry Holliday."

A smile spread across Amy's face. "Then I'll call him John," she declared.

XXXXXXXX

She sat with him for a while that night, curious about the man her father had called a 'stone-cold killer.' He looked so young and so innocent as he slept, moaning only once or twice while she was in the room. Doc had cleaned him up some and Amy set about finishing the job, wiping dirt and embedded pebbles from his face and neck. He never opened his eyes and she wondered how much whiskey her father had poured down his throat while he was conscious. Sometime after midnight she could keep her eyes open no longer and laid her head down on the edge of the bed. She didn't want to leave him entirely alone just in case he needed something.

Within minutes, she was sound asleep. She stayed that way all night and her father found her at dawn the next morning, stiff and sore but in the same spot. 'John' hadn't woken all night and Amy wasn't sure if that was a good or bad sign. Gage watched his daughter keep guard over the injured gunslinger and couldn't help but wondering what was in store for all of them. Amy had such a big heart when it came to animals, but she usually didn't take to people the same way. So it was a little frightening to him to wonder if that's all Doc Holliday was to her – a wounded animal. She sat up from the bed and yawned and he smiled at her paternally. She was so much like her mother. What if she wanted to be the one to tame the wild beast in the bed next to her? He shook his head, trying to banish the unacceptable thought.

"Amy, breakfast's ready. Come on now and get some food in you."

She finally looked up at him and a slow smile spread across her face. "Morning, daddy. John didn't wake up last night."

"John?"

She nodded briefly. "That's his real name, and that's what I'm gonna call him. You think that's alright? That he didn't wake up, I mean."

"I think that's normal, Amy, considering what all got done to him yesterday. I wouldn't be surprised if he slept all day today, too. Probably a good thing – all he's gonna find is pain when he wakes."

"Daddy?"

"Hmmm?"

"We did the right thing, didn't we? Saving him, I mean."

Her father sighed. "I hope so, honey, I hope so."

XXXXXXXX

For the next three days her time was spent mostly at the broken man's bedside. When he was awake or conscious, whichever it was, Amy did her best to give him water and whatever broth she could get down him. Most of his superficial bruises turned greenish, then purple, and slowly started to fade. She could stare at him for hours on end, wondering what kind of life he'd had before the rockslide. Was it as violent and dangerous as some said, or was that simply a lot of gossip?

Watching him lay there, so peaceful and innocent, she couldn't imagine life as touched by pain and misery as his had been. She was reminded of that too often, as the consumption that wracked his body caused him to go into great coughing spasms on a regular basis. Had he known any sort of peace in his life? Had he known love? Once she realized that his wallet was only that, a wallet, and not some live and vile entity of its own, she examined its contents more carefully. He carried more than twenty-five hundred dollars with him, and one lone photo – a faded picture of a beautiful blonde woman, tall and smiling. Nothing else. Who was she? A mother, a sister, a wife, or a lost love? She was dying to know, but that knowledge would have to wait.

Finally, on the fourth day after she'd found him on Canyon Peak, she discovered him awake and mostly clear-eyed. "Good morning, John, are you feeling any better today?"

His eyes followed her around the bed and he tried to speak. "John?" It was a question, almost as if he didn't know his own name. Well, maybe he didn't. He'd been called 'Doc' for so long that 'John' was a word he was no longer used to. His voice was weak and almost inaudible, but she heard him clearly.

"That's your name, isn't it? John?"

"Don't . . . . . . know."

"I won't call you 'Doc.' Your name's John. John Henry Holliday."

"What?"

Was he serious? Did he really not know his own name? "John Henry Holliday. 'Doc' Holliday. The famous gambler-gunslinger-dentist."

"What?" She watched him look at her, confusion and dismay written all over his face. "Me?"

"That's what your wallet said. We needed to know who you were, so we checked your wallet. It was inside your coat."

"Me?" he asked again and seemed genuinely disturbed.

"According to your wallet, yes. You had quite a bit of money in it, twenty-five hundred dollars, to be exact. And a picture of a blonde woman. Do you remember that?"

Now the dismay in his eyes turned into panic. "No. Holliday?" The same emotion settled into his voice. He didn't know his own name, she was sure of it. His jacket, or what was left of it, was draped over a chair. She walked over and removed the wallet, bringing it over to the bed. First she showed him the engraved name on the inside flap, then pulled out the photo and held it up for him to see.

"She doesn't look familiar?"

There was nothing even close to recognition in his eyes. "No."

Amy put the picture back inside the wallet and returned it to the jacket. She had nothing else to show him to convince him he was Doc Holliday. Maybe the best thing was just to talk to him and see what he did remember, if anything.

"You were caught in the rock slide on Canyon Peak when I found you. Do you remember why you were there?"

There was hesitation and doubt in his answer, like he wasn't sure if he remembered or not. "Going . . . . . going . . . . . . don't know."

"You were going somewhere? To Junction Flats? Mountain City? Fort Apache? Do those sound familiar at all?"

"No."

She sat down in the chair by the bed. Something about the way she sat, or the way she looked, or just the fact that she sat at his bedside, triggered some kind of memory and he struggled to say something. "Rrrrr-rrrrr-rose."

"Rose?"

"Yes."

"Who's Rose?" she asked John.

Again there was confusion, frustration, and doubt in his answer. "I . . . . . .don't know." Slowly his eyes closed, and she didn't know if it was too much for him all at once – her questions and his inability to provide answers. She sat quietly at his bedside until his soft breathing told her that he was once again asleep. She waited for a few minutes more and then got up from the chair and walked into the main room. Her father sat at the table with a cup of coffee and watched her as she came in.

"I wish you'd stop going in there, Amy. No good can come of it."

"He doesn't know his own name, daddy. How can you not know your own name?" She sat down at the table and put her head in her hands. "What must that be like, to wake up in a strange place, with people you don't recognize, in a lot of pain, and not know what your own name is? Can you imagine that?"

Her voice was so sad, so filled with compassion for the killer that for a moment even her father felt sorry for the man who didn't know who he was. Then Gage Stanhope remembered all the stories, all the tales of Doc Holliday and his reckless, needless killing of anyone who got in his way, and his distaste for the man rose up in his throat. "Maybe he's lying to you, Amy. Maybe it's all a sham, to gain your sympathy."

"Why? Why would my opinions matter to him? He doesn't even know my name. And he can barely talk when I ask him questions."

"Still, I'd feel better if you left him alone. Until he's well enough to leave."

Amy sighed and went into the pantry to pour herself some coffee. Her father sat at the table and knew that his daughter, his Amy, would not do as he asked and leave the gunslinger alone. And there was nothing he could do about it.


	6. The Man in the Mask

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 5 – The Man In the Mask

Doc opened his eyes to his customary hangover, only somehow this one was different. Then he remembered and looked around the room. He was alone; there was no Bart Maverick there to harangue him into getting up at this ungodly hour and going to get coffee. He started to sit up in bed and felt the pain in his body, and in his heart, and the events of twenty-four hours ago came rushing back at him.

Yesterday his best friend had thrown a pillow at him to get him out of bed. Today his best friend was dead. Well, he didn't know that for sure, but the odds were against finding Bart alive. If the rock slide hadn't killed him, exposure to the overnight elements and whatever injuries he'd suffered probably had. The group Doc organized last night to go out and search had given their word they'd try again today, but he knew in his heart of hearts that it was probably too late to rescue his friend

All he could do now was wait. Wait to see if the search party could find the body. Wait for his devastated brother to get to Apache Junction. Wait to see if Bret blamed him for Bart's death. Because he certainly blamed himself. Bart had suggested taking the long way to Mountain City, but Doc talked him into riding through the Superstition Mountains rather than riding around to save the extra three days travel time. If only he'd listened . . . . . .

Doc got dressed as best he could with the broken arm and went to the sheriff's office, where the search party had agreed to meet. Several men were already there waiting for him to arrive, and when he did, he wasted no time. He offered a five hundred dollar reward to whoever found Bart Maverick, alive or dead. Maybe it would provide some comfort to Bret to be able to bury his brother. At least that way there would be no doubt.

The men that had gathered rode off, five hundred reasons worth of willing to search for another day. Doc didn't know what to do with himself for a minute and then decided to send another telegram to see if Bret had left Montana yet. There was a reply to the one he'd had sent yesterday, it simply read:

On my way.

How's my brother?

Bret

Doc was relieved that he didn't have to send a wire back announcing they'd been unable to locate Bart. Then he realized he should contact Beau and keep him up-to-date. That could wait until later; maybe he'd have better news to tell Cousin Beau.

Who was he kidding? It was just through some stroke of misfortune that Doc was alive; he should have been the one to perish in the slide, not Bart. He didn't want to think about that anymore, so the best course of action seemed to take him in the direction of the saloon. There he bought and paid for two bottles of whiskey, the best they had, and he retired to his hotel room to hold a private wake for his friend.

Two days later Doc was still holed up in his room, morosely drinking to either remember Bart or forget him – he wasn't sure which at that exact moment. The search party had returned empty handed; the only thing they'd been able to find was the missing man's hat – it looked just like it had been through a rock slide. The sheriff let it be known, courtesy of Doc Holliday, that there was a thousand dollar reward for anybody who turned up positive proof that Bart was dead – in other words, find his body and bring it back. There were plenty of men out searching after that first day, but so far no one had found him. By the third day he'd received another wire from Bret – he was in New Mexico and would be in Apache Junction tomorrow.

Doc walked the floor that night, unable to sleep. There was no doubt in his mind that Bart was gone – and he was going to have to be the one to tell Bret what happened. He quit drinking, sure that he needed to be sober to do so.

But when the stage arrived from Salt Flats, New Mexico, and the oldest Maverick got off, Doc lost his nerve. He could stare down the barrel of a Colt revolver and never flinch, but he couldn't tell Bret what had happened. He left that task to Doctor Boyer, the full-time doctor and part-time coroner of Apache Junction.

The doctor laid it out, pure and simple, for the man that had come such a long way to hear such terrible news. His brother Bart was dead, he had to be, they'd searched for days with no trace of him. All that could be found was his horse, with a snapped neck, and his hat mangled almost beyond recognition. Doc muttered something about a prank that he and Bart played on someone in town and presented Bret with all that remained of his brother, the wallet engraved with 'Bart Maverick' on the outside, and Bret's last letter.

Bret heard the words, but they had no meaning. Bart dead? It couldn't be. He'd know it, deep inside. There would be pain, and anguish, and an insufferable empty space where Bart was supposed to be. Instead everything was as it had been before. Bret heard the words, but they made no sense at all. Avalanche? Days long search? Dead horse? Bart's hat? The words just kept coming, and he finally could take no more, and bolted from the room. Outside he fought to get air into his lungs. This was some cruel and horrible joke that the fates were trying to play on him. Punishing him for all the times he'd stepped in and spoiled their plans to destroy the youngest of the brothers Maverick.

Bart Maverick was still out there somewhere, alive, waiting for his brother to find him and bring him home. And by God, if it was the last thing he ever did on this earth, Bret Maverick would do just that.

XXXXXXXX

Doc had gone out the back door of Doctor Boyer's office, and when Bret regained his composure and returned from outside he had already fled, back to his hotel room and the safety of a whiskey bottle. It didn't take an expert to track Doc down, there was only one hotel in town and he was most certainly registered there. Bret didn't knock, just walked in to find Doc well into a new bottle, hiding from the world as usual.

"You couldn't tell me, Doc? You had to have somebody else do it? You were his friend and you couldn't do me the courtesy of telling me yourself?" Bret was quiet and calm, but there was an edge in his voice that few had ever heard. He was standing in front of Doc Holliday, the man that claimed Bart as his best friend, and he was angry. "I need you to tell me what happened, Doc. Now."

Doc shook his head, already drunk again and still sorrowful. "It's my fault. All my fault. Goin' to Mountain City and I had to take the short cut. He'd still be alive if we'd gone the long way. Damn it. Hate spendin' time in the saddle. More than halfway across the mountains when the slide started. I don't know what happened to him, Bret. I got taken out by a tree and never saw him go down. Found his horse, but not him."

Doc stopped talking and Bret had never seen him look so miserable. "Looked as best I could. Sent searchers up three different times, and they couldn't find him either. I . . . . . . .I'm never gonna forgive myself." Doc put his bottle down and lowered his head into his hand. "I'm sorry. So sorry. I just . . . . . he never tried to change me. Just accepted me as I was . . . that's why . . . . . " He trailed off into nothing.

Bret stood and watched the man who'd stared down some of the fastest guns in the west and never blinked. Doc was a mess right now, and Bret was having a hard time feeling anything but sorry for him. There was a hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach, and nothing but an ache where his heart was supposed to be.

"Stop it, Doc. He's not dead."

Doc looked up at Bret. "I wish."

"He's not."

"How can you be so sure?"

That was easy to answer. "Because I'd know if he was."

' _When was Bret going to believe him?'_ Doc wandered. _'The Mavericks are stubborn, not crazy.'_ "He's gone, Bret. You weren't there. He couldn't have made it out alive."

"Did you see him, Doc? Did you see him dead after you were knocked out?"

There was no answer for a few minutes, as Doc took another drink. Then, finally, a hesitant response. "No."

"That's what I thought. He's out there somewhere, Doc, and I gotta find him. No matter how long it takes."

"Then . . . . . I gotta . . . . . help . . . . . find him . . . . . too." That was the last word Doc spoke; he finally passed out and slumped down in his chair. Bret shook his head and did what he'd done for his brother, only not because of intoxication – put him to bed. He took the glass out of the dentist's hand and set it on the dresser, then took Doc's boots off and picked him up, carrying him three feet to the bed.

Bret stood over the bed and looked at the prone form of the most uncaring, ill-tempered man on the face of the earth. A stone-cold killer who cared for nothing and no-one. The man so miserable over the death of his friend that he'd just drunk himself into a stupor. Doc Holliday was a mask that John Henry Holliday wore, similar to the Bret Maverick mask that he showed to the world at large. Few people ever saw the vulnerable, sad man hidden in the shadows. Bret had, and it wasn't a pretty sight.


	7. Beef Stew and Lemons

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 6 – Beef Stew and Lemons

Early morning. The house was quiet; Gage was asleep upstairs and Amy had made a temporary bed in the downstairs room, sleeping so that John would have her close by if he needed something. Last night he'd sounded restless, moaning and mumbling in his sleep, but had said nothing memorable. She knew he was in pain when he was awake, but he made no complaints or requests, other than an occasional one for water.

He didn't have much of an appetite; he ate some of what she tried to feed him but not much. She worried that he wasn't getting enough nourishment and offered him coffee simply as a way to get something into him. That seemed to hit a nerve; he was always ready for the drink whenever she brought it to him.

The days passed slowly, most of the time spent trying not to shift around much, because of the agony any kind of movement caused. There'd been so much damage to his body that healing seemed to take even longer than it normally would. Amy took to reading to him in the afternoons, just to help pass the time, and he brightened considerably when she started on the Dickens novel _'Great_ _Expectations.'_ That amused her no end, that Doc Holliday should be a Charles Dickens admirer.

Sometimes they talked, but his memory seemed to be sketchy about a lot of things. He remembered nothing of any of the men he'd supposedly killed, and Amy wondered if the tales were untrue. Texas seemed to be familiar to him, and he knew a lot about other odd places, like Kansas City and Santa Fe, but little about Georgia, where he was born and lived most of his early life. He recalled almost nothing about the 'art' of dentistry, which seemed highly unusual, but almost everything about the game of poker.

He seemed gentle and soft spoken, not at all the reputation Doc had and was well versed in literature and of all things, the Bible. She was startled one afternoon when he asked her if she had a Bible and requested she read some of the New Testament. Doc Holliday and the Bible? But she honored his request, and he was quiet and attentive as she read through the Gospels.

One afternoon she stopped to ask him a question. "Why the Bible? I didn't think you even knew what it was."

It took him a moment to answer her; it seemed he was trying to remember something that was just out of his grasp. "My mother . . . . . I think she taught me to read . . . . using the Bible." He watched her, waiting for her reaction. "But I don't remember a lot else about her. Just that. She died . . . . . sometime. I don't know when. Your voice . . . . sounds like hers sometimes."

Amy was touched. Such a sweet memory for such a vile killer. The more time Amy spent with John, the more she liked him. He listened to her and asked her questions about everyday things. What time of year it was, what the weather was like that day, the new foals that were born, how to cook an egg without over-cooking it. When she repeated the conversations to her father, he was confused. How could a man that had done some of the things Doc Holliday was accused of be so interested in such ordinary matters?

One afternoon Gage stopped by the ranch and found Amy deep in conversation with Holliday discussing politics. He stood in the hallway outside the room for almost fifteen minutes and listened to the talk go back and forth, with the gunslinger agreeing almost entirely with Amy's views, about such radical notions as Arizona statehood and women's voting rights. When she left the bedroom a few minutes later, she was surprised to find her father outside shaking his head.

"What's that for, Daddy?" she asked.

"I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't heard it myself. Who would have expected him to agree that women should be able to vote? I thought they were just so much chattel to someone like that."

"You've got the wrong idea about John. I certainly did. He's a gentle soul, not at all like the villain he's been portrayed as. We talk about everything. I read the Bible to him. I can't imagine him taking a gun to anyone, much less killing them."

"And he's never worried you or scared you?"

"No."

Amy want to the pantry, and Gage wandered into 'Doc's' room. "Mr. Holliday," Gage intoned, and got a reply.

"Mr. Stanhope."

"You know Amy is my daughter."

"Yes sir."

"You will treat her with courtesy and respect."

"Yes sir."

Gage had been walking around the room, but now he stopped and looked directly at the man in the bed, who was beginning to look like he might well live. "If you mistreat her in any way - "

"I wouldn't do that."

" – I would not hesitate to throw you to the wolves."

Holliday said nothing.

"I don't care how fast you are with a gun, or who you've killed before. Do you understand me?"

"I do."

"Alright then. You can stay while you heal. But if one thing changes - "

"Understood."

"Daddy, what are you doing in here?" Amy was back with soup for the patient. She stared at her father, wondering just what he was up to.

"Just talking to . . . . John. Is that alright with you?"

"Is that what he was doing?" she asked the gunslinger.

"Yes," he agreed quickly.

"Go on now, Daddy. Lunch time." Gage Stanhope left the room, but he lingered in the hall outside. He could hear Amy talking, asking John questions that could be answered 'yes' or 'no.' "Do you like beef stew?" "Will you eat scrambled eggs?" "Do you have a favorite dessert?" "Do you like lemon?" He heard the answers, mostly "yes," littered here and there with a laugh. Until she asked the last question. "Do you have a sweetheart?"

There was silence, and then an answer he didn't want to hear. "No."

XXXXXXXX

The day after Bret put Doc to bed, he went to the livery and got a horse. He left early, soon after dawn, and rode the trail to the Superstition Mountains. The road was still there, even though a lot of it was obscured by rocks and boulders that hadn't been there earlier in the week. Bret rode for what seemed like hours before finally finding the area Doc described, then got down and walked his horse over the rest of the ground. With minimal effort he located the tree that had felled the gunslinger, then traced the path to the spot where Bart's horse had gone down and been buried. He spent almost an hour, searching every square inch of the area, and he was rewarded. Hidden under tree branches and a whole layer of dead leaves and loose rocks was a black leather-bound book that Bret recognized – Momma's Bible.

Bart carried it with him everywhere. It was the one thing Bret rescued when the Double C Ranch house burned to the ground, and was second only to the cuff links Bart received when Momma died in importance. As Bret wiped the dirt from the cover he remembered the reading lessons with Momma and the book, and how important it was to both the boys. He felt all the air go out of him and he dropped to the ground, overwhelmed by what he might have lost. In just a minute he gripped the Bible harder and forced himself to get back up on his feet. "Hold on, Bart. I'm comin' for ya."

He dug through the pile that remained, and several more around it, but found nothing else. The ground was disturbed and torn up, and it looked like something large had rolled down the hill. A body, perhaps? Bret kept walking, following the downward path of whatever marked the trail.

He moved hundreds of yards south, searching the ground for the continuing 'drag' marks. The trail ended at a gully, where something large had been deposited and then moved. The earth was disturbed and there were multiple boot prints in the dirt. If the tracks down the mountain and out of the gully were human tracks, then odds were they were made by his brother. It seemed logical; if his horse stumbled and fell, or was knocked down, Bart could have easily rolled or been drug down the hill with the moving mountainside. It would also explain why none of the search party found him; under normal circumstances this was much too far for an injured man to travel.

But Bart wasn't here. And it looked as if the person that had been here was removed from the area alive – if they'd been dead the body would have probably been buried right there. There was no evidence of that.

If it was Bart, he could be anywhere, and in any condition. Or he could have died after being taken off the mountain. But somehow Bret didn't believe that to be the case. Just as strong as it had been before, the feeling that his brother was out there somewhere persisted. Now the hard work began.


	8. Maybe, Maybe Not

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 7 – Maybe, Maybe Not

Bret rode back to Apache Junction slowly, turning the days happenings over and over again in his mind. He'd found Belle Maverick's Bible in the Superstition Mountains, and evidence that someone had been taken off of Canyon Peak, most likely alive. He needed the ride back to think.

If the person removed from the mountain was his brother, Bart could be almost anywhere. But if he was alive somewhere, why hadn't he tried to contact Doc? Or Bret? Was he so badly injured that he couldn't make contact? Worse yet, had his injuries proven fatal after he was moved? But that line of thought brought Bret right back to his initial response to Doctor Boyer and Doc Holliday – Bart was alive, he knew it. If that was true, what was his next move?

Maybe he'd have a better idea after some more investigation. Bret had Bart's saddlebags and his wallet, and had really not paid any attention to either. It was time to sit down and examine the two items and see if there were any clues he'd missed.

By the time he got to Apache Junction Doc was pacing in the hotel lobby, stone cold sober. "Bret," he said as soon as Maverick entered the hotel. "Thank God. I was afraid you'd left without me."

"I did, Doc. I rode out to the mountain."

"Did you find anything?" Doc sounded worried.

"Not a body, if that's what you mean. I found our mother's Bible, and something else interesting. How about some supper? I'm starved."

Doc must have been seriously distracted, because he nodded and followed Bret into the dining room. What was even stranger, he ordered food. Who was this in Doc Holliday's clothes? He waited anxiously for the new information, hoping it would provide them some kind of a lead to prove that Bret's instincts were right.

"I went back and walked the whole hill," Bret explained as they ate. "It looks like something rolled or was dragged downhill from the spot where Bart's horse went down. Almost to the bottom, and then into a wash or gully. And then back out, not by its own power. Whoever or whatever it was got carried out and disappeared."

"And you're thinking – "

"That it was Bart, and he was hurt. That if he's still alive he's out there somewhere."

Doc stopped eating and watched Bret for a minute. "If he's still alive?"

Bret nodded. "He's alive, Doc. I know it. Somebody found him and got him out of there."

"Then why wouldn't he contact one of us?"

"That would be a good question. But what if he can't? What if he was hurt so bad that he isn't conscious? What if he can't talk? What if he can't remember?"

"Awful thin 'what ifs', Bret."

"Not 'what ifs', Doc. Possibilities. And maybe one I don't believe – maybe he died after they got him out."

"So what's the plan?" Doc could stand it no more and pulled out his flask.

"I'm goin' lookin' for him."

"Then I'm goin' with you."

Bret shook his head. There were good reasons for Doc not to come along. "You can't, Doc. First of all I don't think you've got the funds to quit playin' poker and search. Second of all, let's be honest. You'd scare most everybody to death as soon as they took a look at you and found out who you were. I need to get information out of people, and I can do that better by myself. And I don't believe Bart would want you to put your life on hold to look for him. Given your, ah . . . . . condition."

Doc didn't know whether to be hurt, or frustrated, or mad. Finally he chose to be grateful. "Okay. I'll give you that. As long as you guarantee you'll let me know what's goin' on. I wanna be there if you find him."

Bret corrected Doc. "When I find him."

XXXXXXXX

Pete checked in with Amy on occasion during the daytime, just so the broken gunslinger would know there was somebody looking in on her. He wasn't happy with what he found the last time he was there: Amy, with her head mere inches from Holliday's, laughing about something he'd just told her. Still, it was obvious there was no way the man could get out of bed, much less do anything else, so he was willing to let it go – this time. He walked into the room and Amy pulled back and sat in the chair next to the bed. Doc had a smile on his face and looked harmless at that moment; Pete leaned against the wall and asked, "Miss Amy, you need anything?"

"No, Pete, I'm perfectly fine."

Pete looked over at the patient and asked simply, "You?"

The smile left Holliday's face. "No."

Pete tipped his hat at Amy and walked back out into the hall. The girl followed him and said quietly, "He can't hurt me, Pete. You don't have to keep coming by to check on me."

"Just bein' careful, Miss Amy. Like to be sure. Besides, your daddy asked me to."

"Of course he did, Pete. Big Gage Stanhope, protector of those who don't need protection. Tell daddy I'm all right. If he wants to do something for me, he can help me get John outside in the sunshine. It's beautiful out there, and the man's been confined to that room for weeks now. It would do both of us some good to get out of doors for an afternoon. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, ma'am. I'm sure your pa will have a solution for you."

Amy had been thinking about getting John outside, ever since he'd been able to sit up in bed. He seemed so sad and looked out the window so longingly, she wanted to do something to make him feel better. His arm was still in a sling and his ribs were sore – but his collarbone was feeling better and his shoulder didn't hurt quite as much. The biggest problem was his foot – swollen and painful, he couldn't have put a boot on if his life depended on it. Still – Amy was sure a trip outside would brighten his day, if not his outlook.

Every time his reputation or past deeds came up in conversation he got quiet and somber, almost as if he didn't believe all the exploits he was accused of. When Amy asked questions about specific incidents, he had no answers for her. That part of his life seemed to have slipped from his memory entirely. About the only thing he had a good recall of were the myriad poker games he'd played and he was reluctant to discuss them.

One morning at breakfast Gage Stanhope encouraged Amy to see if she could get John up and out of bed. The faster Doc Holliday was back on his feet, the sooner he could leave the Stanhope Ranch. Amy was worried about his constant coughing, she was sure due to his consumption. Actually caused by a combination of dirt and dust inhaled during the fall down the mountain and the boulder that had slammed him in the back and bruised his lungs, the two conditions aggravated each other on a continual basis and never allowed any healing.

Gage reminded his daughter he had a crutch in his bedroom from the time he'd broken his leg, and since he and John were about the same height, it might work for the man. The other thing working in John's favor was the fact that his worst injuries had occurred to his right side, with the shoulder, arm and foot on his left side relatively undamaged. Amy was excited by the prospect of being able to get out of the guest room prison and encouraged her father to find and retrieve the crutch. Then she went to tell John.

He seemed excited by the prospect of being able to get up when she revealed the plan to him. "Do you think he'll be able to find it?"

"I'm sure he knows exactly where it is," Amy explained. "My father never loses or misplaces anything."

In just a few minutes Gage Stanhope entered the room, carrying a well-worn crutch. "You ready to try this, John?"

The gunfighter nodded eagerly. "You bet Mr. Stanhope. More than ready." There was a light in his eyes that Amy hadn't seen in a long time, and his smile was broad and genuine. After weeks in one bed, in one room, John Holliday was more than ready to try walking, even as hobbled as he still was.

Between Gage and Amy, they got him out of bed. While he leaned heavily on Gage, Amy was able to get the crutch positioned under his left arm, and Stanhope stayed close while John got the feel of the contraption. He was able to take two or three steps, albeit in sock covered feet due to the still swollen right foot.

He sat down slowly in Amy's chair, just a few steps being about all he could manage after spending weeks flat on his back. He looked up and grinned, and seemed genuinely happy. "Harder than I remember," he commented, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You're still handicapped, son," Gage reminded him. "You have to learn to walk again. We can get you up out of that bed a little each day while you build up your stamina. It'll come back to you, you'll see."

Amy smiled at that remark. For once her father was acting like the good-hearted man he was, rather than the hard-nosed skeptic he'd been ever since she brought John Holliday home. Maybe he'd finally begun to listen to her, and believe that John's reputation was baseless.

The two Stanhope's were about to get him back in bed when Sandy came running into the room. "Boss, you all better come out here. There's a stranger ridin' up, and he looks none too happy."

Gage looked at his daughter, then at the smiling man sitiing on the chair, and followed Sandy back outside. Amy tried to look unconcerned. Maybe this wasn't the law, come looking for Doc Holliday. Maybe it wasn't some would-be gunslinger, come to make his quick-draw reputation. Maybe it was just a coincidence that they had a reputed criminal in their guest room. Maybe it was just a weary gambler looking for his lost brother.


	9. Hiding in Plain Sight

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 8 – Hiding in Plain Sight

He would have been hard-pressed to determine who was the most worn out – him or his horse. They'd been another God-knows how many more miles that day, stopping at every ranch, farm, shack, lean-to or piece of property that looked even vaguely inhabited, just to see if anyone had information about his brother. So when he rode onto the Stanhope Ranch property, it was just another stop on the list. No one knew how close he would be to finding everything he was looking for . . . . . .

A tall, older man walked out of the ranch house, followed by the younger man he'd first seen as he rode up. Before he dismounted they were joined by a petite blonde, a good-looking girl of twenty-something, who wore the only smile in the group. Apparently the older man's daughter, she hurried over and grabbed his horse's reins as he got down from the saddle. "Hi, welcome to Stanhope Ranch. Can we help you with something?"

"Yes ma'am, sir, my name is Bret Maverick, and I'm lookin' for somebody. He may have been severely injured in the rockslide that happened a few weeks ago. The one up in the Superstitions? Seen anybody around here like that?"

He was tall and good-looking, but he was trail-dusty and looked exhausted, and there was a profound sadness in his eyes, like he'd just about given up hope of ever succeeding in his quest. He tipped his hat to her, then took it off and slapped it against his leg to shake the dust off of it. The questions sounded like he'd asked them over and over again, always getting the same answer.

"Glad to meet ya. Gage Stanhope, this is my daughter Amy. Who's this your lookin' for, son?"

"It's my brother Bart, Mr. Stanhope. He and Doc Holliday were riding through the mountains when the slide hit. I haven't been able to find any trace of him since."

"I don't mean to sound cruel, Mr. Maverick, but did it ever occur to you there might be a reason you can't locate him?"

"Daddy! Stop it. The poor man is tired enough as it is without you adding to his burden! What's your brother look like, Mr. Maverick?" Amy asked in all seriousness. If someone had been riding with John, why hadn't their visitor said anything about it? Was there really a missing man named Bart Maverick? Or was this stranger just trying to find Doc for some other reason? A misplaced grudge or just a desire to be the man who killed Doc Holliday?

"Not quite as tall as me, Miss Stanhope. Brown hair, brown eyes. On the thinner side. Couple years younger. Great on a horse. Practically lives on coffee."

Amy searched his face. The description fit John, but it would fit a lot of men. And if there was no 'Bart Maverick' and he was really looking for Doc Holliday, he'd know the description anyway. She turned her back to him and glared at her father, who looked like he was getting ready to say something. Lest he give away their guest's location and identity, Amy turned back to the stranger quickly and gave him the same answer he'd gotten for weeks. "Sorry, Mr. Maverick, haven't seen anybody like that. Are you sure he was coming this way?"

Bret took a good, long look at Amy Stanhope before answering her. There was something a bit odd about her reaction to his description of Bart, and yet . . . . . . what reason would she have to lie to him? He shook his head as if trying to dispel the odd feeling he was getting. He'd been too many places and talked to too many people, and it was finally beginning to dawn on him that Bart could be anywhere by this time. It was apparent that something drastic had happened to his brother, and for some reason he couldn't or wouldn't communicate. Bret sighed; just another dead end in a long string of dead ends.

"No, Miss Stanhope, they were on the way to Mountain City. I was just hoping . . . . . . do you mind if I water my horse before I go? He's about as tired as I am."

Gage Stanhope spoke up. "Go right ahead, Mr. Maverick. Anything else you need? Got enough supplies? I assume you're not ready to quit looking?"

"No, I'm not. I've only got one brother, Mr. Stanhope. I don't believe he's gone. He's out there somewhere, waitin' for me. I'll find him, however long it takes. Thanks for the offer of supplies – I'm all set." He reached over and took the reins back from Amy, then tipped his hat to her. "Miss Amy, I'll be goin'. If Bart should turn up, you can contact me in Apache Junction, general delivery. Thanks for the information." He mounted his horse and headed back out.

As soon as he was out of hearing range, Amy turned her father's way. "Were you going to tell him about John?"

Gage shook his head. "Nope. Much as I believed him, I don't trust people I just met. Story's got too many holes. Why would anybody in their right mind go over the mountains when they could go around? But I'd like to hear from Doc if he knows this Bart Maverick fella. Has he said anything to you, daughter?"

Amy shook her head. "Not a word. Maybe he doesn't remember."

"Maybe he doesn't want to remember."

She looked her father right in the eyes. "Maybe he doesn't."

Sandy went back to the corral and Gage and Amy walked into the house. Amy was shocked to find John, with the crutch, leaning up against the wall by the window. Where he'd seen and probably heard everything that went on outside. He looked as worn out as the poor man that had just left. The first words out of Amy's mouth were, "Time for you to get back to bed."

She walked beside the still-recovering man as he made his way slowly back down the hallway. Once they were out of earshot of her father she quietly asked, "Do you know the man he was looking for? Bart Maverick?"

John shook his head. "Nope."

"Are you sure?" His answer hadn't sounded that way.

They turned the corner into his room and he collapsed onto the bed. More walking than he'd done in weeks, and he was thoroughly exhausted. And in a lot of pain from the exertion. "I'm not sure of anything, Amy. But the name's not familiar. And I've never seen that fella before in my life. If I knew Maverick, wouldn't I be familiar with his brother?"

She agreed with him as she tucked him back in bed. "That's what I thought, too. Could you have played poker against him?"

"Don't know. Maybe. But I didn't recognize the name. Bart Maverick, didn't he say? Not at all familiar."

"What if he was here for some other reason?"

John shook his head. "What reason? To outdraw Doc Holliday? That wouldn't be much of an accomplishment, the shape I'm in. No, maybe he is just looking for his brother. Maybe Bart Maverick was riding with me. Did you see a trace of anybody else when you found me?"

Once again Amy had to shake her head 'no.' "But we didn't find any kind of a mount with you either. Or any way you got where you were."

There was that look again, she'd seen it before and recognized it. That look of sadness, and melancholy, and despair that overcame him sometimes when he thought she wasn't looking. The look that told her he couldn't remember who he was, or where he came from, or the things he'd done. The look that made her feel like all she wanted to do was take him in her arms and hold him; tell him that everything would be alright, and soon he'd remember his life before the slide; but until he did he was safe and protected. That she wouldn't let anything that got near him hurt him, that she'd prevent the Bret Mavericks of the world from causing him any more pain. Then the look would be gone; he'd know that she was watching him, and he'd hide the anguish and suffering behind the mask he wore. That's when he became Doc Holliday, the gunfighter, the man that let no one touch him. That let no one get near enough to hurt him again.

She far preferred the man she'd come to know as John.

XXXXXXXX

Bret watered his horse before leaving the ranch. He rode out slowly, and couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching him. But who?

Had he grown jaded and suspicious while looking for his brother? Or had he always been that way and just not realized it? The Stanhope's had given him no reason to doubt them, yet something kept nagging at him. If they'd seen Bart why wouldn't they tell him? Maybe his brother had died and they were afraid he'd blame them. Maybe. . . . . . .

Maybe he'd gotten paranoid and distrustful of everyone. Maybe he was just exhausted. The Stanhope's seemed like nice, honest people with no reason to lie to him. Yet there was something in Amy Stanhope's voice that gave him a feeling, a feeling that he couldn't shake.

He was bone-tired and weary of everything, including being on a horse and going over the same territory day after day. He needed a change of scenery, a change of purpose, anything to reshape his life. His feelings hadn't changed – he knew that Bart was still alive and out there somewhere. But he was getting nowhere fast, and his funds were beginning to run low. If he intended to keep on searching, he was going to have to take a break and play some poker, and maybe that was a good thing. It would force him to concentrate on something other than the missing Maverick.

He kept riding towards Apache Junction with a new goal – to make enough money at poker to continue the hunt. Maybe Doc was right – maybe it was time to head to Tucson and try his luck there. If half of what he heard was true, he could make enough money in a short period of time to resume the search. He wouldn't give up – he'd never give up. Just take a break and return when he had a better bankroll.

It sounded like a good plan. All he had to do was talk himself into it.


	10. Crash and Burn

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 9 – Crash and Burn

Even though John didn't know Bret Maverick or the brother he was looking for, something about the visit bothered him. If his appetite was poor at best, it became almost non-existent. He wasn't sleeping, and his coughing and wheezing came to be more pronounced. He had headaches more frequently, and they grew to be painful and exhaustive. He'd been hesitant to take anything for the throbbing in his head for some reason but one afternoon the pain was so excruciating that he consented to take an aspirin. It was the move that told Amy there was more to this man than she knew, and it almost killed him.

Within an hour of taking the offending pill, he was sweating and feverish, and the aching in his head kept getting worse. Amy was right in the middle of a Dickens chapter when he suddenly began coughing and choking, even more acute than normal. She stopped reading and went to the dresser for a glass of water, which she handed to John when she returned to his bedside. He took the offered water and began to drink when he suddenly gasped in pain and squeezed the glass so tightly that it shattered in his hand. Water, glass and blood went everywhere, and John passed out. Amy ran for a towel and got the first two cleaned up, then the blood, and bandaged his hand. The fever got worse and he moaned and thrashed about in apparent pain. Once he even called out a name that sounded like "Jody," but she couldn't be sure. His breathing was shallow and uneven, and by evening he was still unconscious. She was genuinely worried and finally dispatched Jess to fetch Doc Greeley.

The doctor examined him and emerged from the room shaking his head. "I can't begin to guess what's wrong, Amy," he flatly told her. "He's still unconscious and he's got an awful fever. What did you give him before this happened?"

"Just aspirin, Doctor," she told the man that delivered her when she was born.

"Hmmm," he rubbed his forehead as he puzzled it out. "Could be some kind of an allergy. Don't let him take any more. If he is allergic and one aspirin gives this type of a reaction, another could kill him. Just gonna hafta wait it out, girl. How's everything else been?"

"It's been coming along Doc, until this. We got him up and out of bed last week, using Daddy's old crutch, and he's been doing well. Getting used to it and moving around. I know he'll be happier when he can put a boot on that foot, but I was going to take him outside soon, until this happened. Did you see the trouble he's having breathing?"

"That's the consumption, girl. And whatever this is has aggravated it. Nothin' I can do for any of it. Try to keep somebody with him until he wakes up. And no more aspirin! Better to not take any chances. And get some rest yourself. You look like you haven't slept for days."

Amy hung her head and sighed. "I haven't, Doc. I hate to leave him alone so I spend as much time as I can with him. He seems so lonely and sad all the time. I try to make him laugh."

Doc Greeley rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Dear, dear, this was just what he'd been afraid of, ever since he found out that his patient was the infamous Doc Holliday. Amy was becoming attached to the man. And just what would happen when he was well and wanted to leave? He'd taken care of this young lady her entire life and the last thing she needed was her heart broken by this . . . . this criminal.

"Be careful, Amy girl. This is not a man to be trifled with. He'll break your heart and leave you miserable. Don't look at me like that, I know what I'm talking about. You mark my words."

"Yes, sir," she told the doctor. Anything to make Doc Greeley happy; he was a good man and a good friend of the family. She saw Doc out and came back to find no change in John. She sat with him until supper and came out to eat just to please her father, then went right back to her patient. She stayed again that night in the bed she'd set up in his room, and slept fitfully, waking every time he moved or moaned, which seemed to be every few minutes. He remained that way all night, and the fever seemed to climb higher and higher until she thought he'd surely burst into flames.

She woke early and made coffee, then returned with a cool, wet towel for John's forehead. He wasn't as restless as he'd been last night, but the fever seemed not to have abated any. Gage came into the bedroom to see if there'd been any change before going out to help with the herd, but the only thing Amy could report was . . . . . nothing any different. Morning stretched into afternoon and she finally dozed, falling asleep while sitting in the chair and resting her head on the bed, the way she had the first night he'd been there. An hour later she woke with a start to find his hand resting on her head, and it felt noticeably cooler. She checked his forehead and was relieved to find that the fever had indeed broken, and he seemed to be sleeping rather than simply 'passed out.'

He slept the rest of the day, peacefully almost, and his breathing appeared to be back to near normal. Whatever the problem was it had subsided, and Amy could finally breathe easier herself. Right after supper he finally stirred and woke, almost startled when Amy explained what happened and how long he'd been unconscious or asleep. "Aspirin?" was his only question.

"Aspirin," she answered. "Something familiar about that?"

"Yeah – maybe." He finally paid attention to the bandaged hand. "What's this?"

She told him the story of the shattered glass and he just sat and listened. When she was finished he looked troubled. "I'm sorry, Amy. You do so much for me – you didn't need extra work. I'm sure you'll be glad when I'm gone."

That was the most preposterous thing he'd ever said. Didn't he know – she stopped herself mid-thought and just answered, "No, I won't."

They sat quietly for a minute before she remembered his 'babbling' last night. "Who's Jody?"

"She's . . . . . . . . . I don't know who she is."

"Sister, sweetheart, lost love . . . . lady of the evening?"

"Sister, I think." His voice was hesitant with the answer, then he asked her, "Lady of the evening? You mean whore?"

Amy was surprised to hear him be so blunt, although she shouldn't have been. He was, after all, Doc Holliday.

"Uh . . . . yes."

He shook his head carefully. "No. Don't do that."

He hadn't lied to her as far as she knew, so she believed him. Somehow it was a relief to hear him say it. "Are you hungry? We just had supper, there's plenty of food left."

She waited to hear his standard answer, "Not really," but instead he asked her, "What was it?"

"Venison stew."

"Sure. Any coffee?"

Amy giggled. "You know there is."

"Please?" He looked at his bandaged hand. "If I can hold it."

"If you can't, I'll hold it for you." She giggled again and went to fetch supper.

John sat in the bed and marveled at the young woman that had just left the room. She'd saved his life on more than one occasion, and seemed to tolerate his lack of memory and dark moods with grace and humor. And she was certainly pleasant to look at. He found himself missing her when she wasn't there. _'Settle down, Doc,'_ he thought to himself. ' _As soon as you can sit a horse you'll have to find a place to_ _live.'_ Right now it didn't much matter – he was here and she was, too. So what if he fell a little in love with her – he had no illusions about his life as soon as he was healed. He smiled and waited for her to return. Best enjoy the attention while he could.


	11. Back to Work

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 10 – Back to Work

Bret left Apache Junction two days later, after instructing the Western Union clerk that he would be back sometime soon and to hold all wires until his return. He headed south towards Tucson, stopping at two or three small towns along the way and sitting in on games wherever he could find them. They weren't worth much, but they got his mind back on poker and away from the obvious.

By the time he got to Tucson he was ready for a hotel room, a bath and a shave. He signed in to the 'Tucson Silver Palace' and arranged for a bath, then was surprised to find a message waiting for him. _'Any word? Doc.'_

He was wondering just how Doc knew where he was until he turned around to go upstairs and almost ran over the gunslinger. "Doc, didn't expect to find you here."

"This is about as far as I'm going for now." Doc looked like he'd slept in his clothes; knowing Doc, he probably had done just that. "Anything? Nothing? Speak, man."

"Doc, I need some space. Give me an hour, I'll meet you in the dining room and tell you everything. Good enough?"

Doc nodded. "Goin' across the street to the bar. I'll be back."

' _Sure you will,'_ thought Bret. "Catch you later."

It was a little less than an hour when he came back downstairs, clean and shaven and starved. He walked into the dining room, never expecting Doc to be there, and was surprised that he was sitting at a table in the back of the room. Bret made his way to the table as Doc raised his cup to get the waitresses attention. She arrived with the coffee pot just as Bret got there; after filling Doc's cup only half-full she poured Bret a whole cup. "You know what you want?" she asked, setting down the pot and taking out a note pad.

"What's the special?"

"Venison steak, mashed potatoes, green beans. Dinner roll."

"And dessert?"

"Cherry pie."

Bret smiled at her. "Bring it all."

As usual, Doc just stared at him. "How can you - ?"

"I ate yesterday, Doc."

Doc's eyes opened wide. "So?"

Bret just shook his head. Doc would never understand. "No word. No change. No anything."

"No trace at all?"

"No trace at all."

"And you're here because – "

"Because I'm not independently wealthy and I need money to live."

"Aha. I see you've come down with my ailment."

Bret took a sip of coffee. "Yep. Not enough funds to keep going. I needed a break."

Doc pulled out his flask and 'repaired' his coffee. "You can stop looking, Bret. Nobody will blame you if you do."

A vehement shake of the head. "I'll blame me. He's out there Doc, I know he is."

"Maverick, be sensible about this. It's been almost three months since that afternoon. We lost him on that mountain; you're not gonna find him."

The waitress brought Bret's dinner and he started in on it. "That's where you're wrong, Doc. I will find him. If it takes me until the day I die."

Doc had no intention of arguing any further. If Bret insisted on being wrong, and stubborn, so be it. He changed the subject, to one no less disturbing. "Any word from Beau?"

Bret sighed. "Yeah, and it's not good. Doctors don't know what Georgia's got, but she just keeps gettin' sicker. I need to be in two places at once, and I can't. Beau needs me there, he's havin' a tough time of it."

"Then you need to go. Beau's alive, he needs your support."

"Bart's alive, Doc."

"I didn't say he wasn't. Besides, I can spend some time lookin' for him."

"We've had this discussion already. Unless you've inherited some money I don't know anything about . . . . . "

"As a matter of fact . . . . . well, it wasn't inherited, exactly."

Bret tried not to laugh. "What was it, exactly?"

There was a pause while Doc tried to think of an answer. "Ah . . . . a wedding gift?"

"You're gettin' married?"

"No, but he was. The operative word being 'was.' The wedding's been delayed, I believe."

"So you're telling me there's an unhappy bride somewhere?"

"My dear Bret, they're all unhappy, aren't they?"

It had been so long since he laughed genuinely that he'd forgotten how funny Doc truly was. "I don't know, Doc, but the grooms sure are!"

Doc put down his cup and got serious. "Really, you should go. I'll stay and keep looking."

The gambler sat there and rolled things over in his mind. He didn't want to leave until he'd found Bart, but Beau's last telegram had sounded desperate. He knew what the situation was in Arizona, and he understood . . . . . but he was falling apart as sure as he breathed. Jody was a wreck, too, and Beckham was frustrated that he couldn't stop whatever was attacking Georgia. Bret made up his mind, then and there, that he had to hold what passed as family together, for everyone's sake. Maybe Doc could be successful where Bret had so far failed. "Alright, I'll leave tomorrow. Tonight I need to make some money. Promise me you really will look for him, Doc."

He knew how hard Doc had grieved for his lost friend, so when Doc said, "I promise, Bret. I'll do my very best to find him," Bret Maverick believed him.

XXXXXXXX

The days seemed to pass at a more leisurely rate than usual. Ever since the nightmare caused by the lone aspirin, John's recovery had also slowed to a snail's pace. The only progress occurred in his foot, where the swelling finally went down and he was able to walk in slippers, then boots. The cut on his hand healed and he would have been able to wear regular clothes again if he'd had any. Everything he'd had on when he was rescued from the mountain was somewhere beyond destroyed, and Amy finally drove into Mountain City one afternoon and went shopping.

She warned John that she had no intention of dressing him all in black, and after enduring his arguments against any other color, she left with an idea in mind.

When she returned to the ranch later that day she'd provided a compromise – black pants, black shirt, and a buckskin jacket. Oh, and a tan hat. After some struggle to at least get the pants and half the shirt on, Amy came back in to help finish the job. The first thing she noticed was the scars that John had on his upper body, then she noticed how thin he was. The man needed someone to make sure he ate, even though she was sure his consumption caused a good deal of the weight issue.

Remarkably, everything fit. When he was dressed and up on his feet, Amy watched as he bowed his head for a moment and closed his eyes. A silent prayer of thanks? It appeared so, when he opened his eyes again he looked down at her and smiled, a big, happy grin. For the first time in weeks he almost felt human.

They got the jacket on him and he slipped his slowly healing broken arm back into the sling. His ribs were still tender, but not the way they'd been. Amy stood on tiptoes and put the hat on his head, then smiled back at him. "It fits you – I mean it looks good on you. Much better than just black would have. Bend down here for a minute."

He did as she asked and she arranged his collar underneath the jacket. Before he straightened he swept her up with his good arm and pulled her to him in a kiss. It was sweet, and tender, and not at all as she'd imagined. Suddenly he turned her loose and backed away from her. "I'm . . . . . I'm sorry, Amy."

She stared at him. After all these months . . . . . her first instinct was to kiss him back, her second instinct was to slap him. She did neither, just stood and stared. Then in a rush she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him for all she was worth. And John Holliday, ex-gunslinger, kissed her back.


	12. Love Among the Ruins

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 11 – Love Among the Ruins

It was impossible, and they both knew it, but that didn't stop them. Somehow, someway, over those long months of recovery and time spent together, they'd fallen in love. He never made a move, never even a sly glance her way, until the day she made him feel alive again by buying him clothes and helping him dress. They were hard pressed to stay away from each other after that, and just missed being caught by her father on more than one occasion. He knew they had to discuss the impossible situation they found themselves in, and waited until she'd followed him outside one afternoon and joined him sitting on the porch. Gage was out rounding up strays, and the only one at the ranch beside John and Amy was Cora, the housekeeper.

John had finally traded in the crutch for a cane, and something about the way he held it and used it to walk was familiar. He still wore the sling but had started taking his arm out of it for longer and longer periods, regaining the use slowly after breaking both bones in that arm. He'd started playing poker with Amy and the boys on Friday night and learning to use the arm again was tedious but necessary.

She sat next to him on the porch and watched as he stretched his long legs out their full length. He seemed to be coughing less, she noticed, and had put on a few pounds, though he still qualified as bone thin. Maybe the dry Arizona air was good for him, after all.

His disposition had certainly improved once he was able to get out of bed. When Amy wasn't around or was busy with something else, he'd made friends with most of the ranch hands. Despite his reputation as a hard-nosed killer, everyone seemed to like him and enjoy his company. He was thoughtful and polite, trying to help out whenever he could. Even Gage had fallen under his spell and was charmed by him. At least, as long as he didn't know what was happening between his daughter and the 'reformed' gunman. Thus the long-time-in-coming talk on the porch this afternoon.

"What are we gonna do about this?" John asked, to begin with.

"Continue to enjoy it?" Amy answered.

"You know what I mean, and why I'm asking."

"Why do we have to do something about it?"

He looked over at her, sitting in the chair next to him. God, she was beautiful. Especially when the sun shone on her hair the way it was right now. He couldn't remember another woman in his life as pretty as she was. Maybe that had something to do with having no memory of any other women, maybe not. "Because I'm a man, and you're a woman, and one of these days a few stolen kisses here and there isn't gonna be enough for either one of us. Remember when you asked me about . . . . . fancy ladies, and I told you I didn't?"

"Yes."

"That didn't mean I didn't want to. I just didn't. I'm human, Amy, and sometimes it's sheer torture to hold you and not go any further. What do we do then?"

Amy blushed but answered. "Then we do what we want to do."

He sat silent for long minutes. "I can't marry you."

"I didn't ask you to marry me."

"What kind of life would that be, married to a man who was either gonna die from consumption or in some back alley from a gunslinger's bullet?"

"I didn't bring up the word marriage."

"You're not a fancy lady, Amy, you deserve to be married to someone who loves you."

"I have someone who loves me."

She had an answer for every point he brought up. "But not someone who can marry you."

"I could have gotten married a long time ago, John. I chose not to. I have no problem keeping it that way."

"That's not fair to you."

This arguing with the man who was supposed to be amoral was getting her nowhere. Time to put an end to the discussion. "That's the way I want it."

"Amy - "

"No, John. I want what I want, and what I want is you. This is no one's business but ours."

Before they could go any further Doc Greeley came driving his buggy down the road to the ranch. He pulled up right in front of the porch. "Amy, John. Beautiful day, isn't it?"

"That it is, Doctor. What brings you down this way?"

Amy sat and watched the interplay between the two men. Doc Greeley, who'd been so skeptical of the gunfighter. And Doc Holliday, who'd made it a lifelong commitment to trust no man.

The older man climbed down from the buggy. "I came to have a look at your arm, John. I think it might be time we got rid of the sling for good. Let's go inside so I can see what I'm doin.'"

John stood up and walked into the house with the doctor. Amy was slow to follow. She sat by herself for a few minutes, wondering why it was that men always thought they knew what was best for you. She didn't need someone to protect her, she needed someone to love her. And that someone was John Henry Holliday. She finally got up and went inside, just in time to hear Doc Greeley tell John he was indeed done with the sling.

"I believe you're as close to healed as you're gonna get for a while, John. You need to use that arm, to get some strength back. Funny as this sounds, try target practice. Do something to exercise that arm. Over and over again. Or roping calves. You can rope calves, can't you?"

John laughed and watched her as she walked inside. "I don't know, Doc. I haven't tried it in this life. I suppose we'll find out. Anything else?"

Amy crossed the room to the pantry, to retrieve the coffee pot. John watched every step she took, and Doc Greeley watched John watch her. _'Oh dear,'_ thought the older man, _'he's in love with her. I was_ _afraid this would happen.'_

Amy came back out with cups and the pot. She poured coffee for all three of them, then set the pot down and took a chair. She looked up at John and smiled, and it was written all over her face. She was in love with him, too.

"What are you two gonna do about this?"

"About what, Doc?" Amy asked innocently.

"About being in love?"

XXXXXXXX

Bret packed his bag and sent a telegram to Beau in Silver Creek.

 _On my way_

 _Hang on, love to Georgia_

 _Cousin Bret_

He caught the stage at ten the next morning after extracting another promise from Doc to keep searching for Bart. He wasn't happy about temporarily delaying the hunt for his brother, but he knew how stretched thin Beau was and that Bret was needed to hold things together. And he was comforted by the thought that Bart would want him to be in Montana to support Beau, Georgia, and Jody in any way he could.

Why did he still have the persistent feeling that Bart was alive? Everything he'd found or seen or heard pointed in the direction of a different conclusion. But if Bart was truly gone why hadn't his body been found? And who or what was taken off the mountain the day of the rockslide? Those were the questions that kept Bret Maverick's hope alive, months after it should have died. So he would go 'home' to Montana, to do anything he could to help his cousin and the rest of the family. And he hoped that wherever his brother was, he'd wait for Bret to find him.


	13. All the Hollidays

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 12 – All the Hollidays

The days passed and life went on. Doc Holliday, the real Doc Holliday, worked his way back north in the state of Arizona, checking every small town and watering hole for the missing and presumed dead Bart Maverick. He hadn't been seen or heard from. No one that matched that description had been through there. No one had rescued or taken care of a man that couldn't remember who he was. It was the same in every town, and Doc wondered why he was still humoring Bret. Just when he was about to give up and call it a day a remark, or a joke, or an adventure, would resurrect itself from his liquor addled brain and the hurt he felt for his missing friend would rise like a phoenix from the ashes and push him forward again.

Once in a little town called Whiteriver there was a story about a man badly hurt in a rockslide and Doc thought he might have found something – but the man turned out to be a sixty-year-old sheep farmer. The exhilaration Doc felt for almost twenty-four hours was incredible while he waited for further identification of the survivor. What a coup it would be to find Bart when his own brother couldn't – but when his hopes were dashed all over again it was almost as devastating as waking up the first time he realized his best friend was dead.

Still Doc traveled on, sending an occasional wire to Silver Creek and getting increasingly despondent replies. Whatever disease had attacked Georgia Maverick wasn't going to let go until it did its worst, and some months later it finally succeeded. The telegram Doc got when he was in Winslow didn't surprise him.

 _Georgia Maverick gone_

 _Staying with Beau and Jody for now_

 _Any word?_

 _Bret_

He was sorry to hear about Beau's wife, it seemed the man was really in love and must be devastated at the loss. He was more than ready for Bret to return to Arizona, however, and wasn't thrilled to hear that return was on hold. He was beginning to understand why Bret hadn't wanted Doc to go along on the search; people were more than willing to talk to him until they found out his identity. Like he would really shoot somebody just because they didn't have any information. Well, probably wouldn't shoot somebody.

Then something happened that pulled Doc off the search for several weeks. A drunken cowboy decided one night he was going to be the one man to outdraw the infamous Doc Holliday and forced Doc into a gunfight that he had no interest in. The cowboy, of course, paid with his life, but actually got a shot off before he died and hit Doc in the left leg, causing him to spend almost eight weeks in the virtually unknown hamlet of Walker's Pass, in southern Arizona. Besides going practically stir crazy it forced Doc to stay in one place longer than he had in years. By the time he was ready to travel again, he'd received another telegram from Bret, who'd been gone almost five months.

 _Returning to Apache Junction_

 _Be there in a week_

 _How's the leg?_

 _Bret_

Doc was more than glad to finally hear what he considered to be some good news and made plans to depart for Apache Junction almost immediately. Bret was the only Maverick he had at the moment and he would be delighted to see Bart's brother and go back to doing something productive. He played his last game of poker among the locals in Walker's Pass and started the ride to Apache Junction the next morning. At last, back to the search.

XXXXXXXX

It was a horse race between John and Amy and, as usual, John's gelding Noble outran Amy's mount, Cooper. By the time they got to their usual spot, they were both laughing so hard they almost fell off their horses. Amy dismounted and John slid down off of Noble, who he'd been riding bareback. Almost as soon as John could ride again he'd bonded with Noble, who appreciated the fact that his rider preferred going saddleless as often as possible.

As far as normal went, their ride out to the abandoned mine was an almost daily occurrence. They'd found a place that no one seemed to know about but them, and they visited frequently so they could spend unrestricted time together. They were like two teenagers in love for the first time and passed most of their days together in one venue or another.

Amy couldn't remember every being this happy, and John – well, John didn't remember much before the rockslide. She giggled and ran, and he chased her and caught her at the mouth of the mine. Sometimes it was enough to just stand and hold each other, knowing that there were no prying eyes anywhere in the vicinity watching their every move. This was one of those days, and Amy held on to John as tightly as he held her. Finally Cooper whinnied, and the would-be lovers laughed and stepped apart.

John pulled the blanket down that served as Amy's bedroll and spread it under the pine trees near the mine entrance. They sat down and enjoyed the fact that today was cooler than the other days this week had been; autumn was coming and even the daytime temperatures had begun to cool. He stretched out on the blanket, watching the wisps of clouds in the sky above, and Amy snuggled against his good arm and sighed.

"Something bothering you?" he asked innocently.

She hesitated before answering him. "My father," she finally revealed.

"Nothing wrong with Gage, is there?"

"Other than the fact that he wants to know what I do every minute of the day, no."

"He's your father, Amy. He wants to make sure you haven't fallen in with a criminal. Me."

"You're not a criminal."

"Hmm, that's debatable. According to gossip, I'm a heartless, mean-spirited, gunslinger who kills for no good reason."

"That's not true. You always have a good reason."

He leaned on his elbow and looked down at her. "Aren't you funny? You've been spending too much time with me. My sense of humor is infecting you."

"Yes, and that's not all that's infecting me. What are you doing all the way up there?"

She reached up a hand and put it on the back of his neck, pulling his head down to her and they kissed, slowly and sweetly. It went on like that for a few minutes and then he pulled back from her. "When are you going to town next?"

"Why?"

"Because it's time I go in with you."

They hadn't been in town together yet; Amy worried that someone would see John and challenge Doc to a gunfight. Something had been itching at him for weeks and he wanted to sit in a poker game a little more challenging than the Friday night match played in the bunkhouse. "Tomorrow," she finally answered, and waited for his lips to return to hers.

But they didn't. He had something else on his mind and not even the nearness of her warm and willing lips could distract him. "What is it?" she asked, and it took several minutes before he gazed down at her and replied.

"I need some more clothes," he told her.

"What kind of clothes?"

"Proper clothes. I'm a gambler, Amy, among other things. That's how I make my living, and I haven't been doing much of that for quite a while. I need to look like a gambler, not like I just fell off a steer. It's time I did some shopping for myself."

"Is that all? I thought it was something important."

He pulled away from her and sat up. "That is important."

"I meant important to us."

"Again, it is important to us. I'm not going to continue living off of your family, Amy, I'm well enough to go back to work. My work. Which is gambling. If you don't like it, I can find someplace else to stay."

He hadn't meant it to come out sounding like a threat, but it did. And once the words had been said, they both wished they hadn't. She did her best to downplay the disagreement.

"Of course you can go with me. I need to do some shopping myself. If we leave early enough we can shop, get the supplies, and have supper in town."

"Good. That'll be fine." He looked back down at her, and the smiling, playful John Holliday was back. "Now where was I?" he asked as he leaned in for another kiss.


	14. Big Trouble, Little Guns

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 13 – Big Trouble, Little Guns

The day started out like dozens of other days had started, bright and sunny. John and Amy took the wagon to town, leaving early enough to allow them time to run all the errands and still have supper. While Amy had the ranch supplies assembled and ordered, John took a look at the clothes the store had. He found a black broadcloth coat with a woven binding around the lapels, and dark gray pants. Then added a front pleated white shirt and black cravat. Lastly he uncovered a black and silver-grey vest and a gray hat and felt like he'd accomplished something important. He was hard to fit because he was so broad in the shoulders but much thinner than the average man.

His boots were still serviceable but there was a pair of black leather ones that fit perfectly, and he took those, too. Amy was surprised he found clothes so quickly; it was almost as if he knew exactly what he was looking for. She found two new riding skirts and a pair of pants that fit perfectly, then added a new gray hat that matched John's. They had everything loaded and were walking over to the gun shop when they heard somebody yell "Holliday!" John stopped dead in his tracks and pulled Amy in behind him, shielding her from whatever was to come. The defensive maneuver was unnecessary, it was simply Doc Greeley trying to get their attention.

"Don't do that, Doc. I had visions of a shoot-out I didn't want."

"Sorry, John. Since the wind kicked up I didn't think you'd hear me, so I yelled as loud as I could. How's the arm and everything else doing?"

Amy finally stepped out from behind John and threw her arms around the doctor. "Everything is wonderful, Doc. Thanks for asking."

The man that had delivered Amelia Jo Stanhope looked at their faces and saw the happiness there. "Yes, I believe it is." If ever a man had been misjudged, it was John Henry Holliday. They had all expected a brutal, foul-tempered outlaw, and had instead gotten a gentle, peaceful soul. "Have you told your father yet?"

Amy shook her head 'no.' "Soon, Doc, I promise. It'll be soon."

"John, how's the arm these days?"

"Better than I could have expected, Doc. And yes, I can rope calves. Just in case you were wondering. I'm afraid the days of the fast-drawing Doc Holliday are over, though. Right now I couldn't outdraw my mother, even if she gave me a head start. But I'm gettin' used to that. Best way to avoid trouble – don't carry a Colt."

"Is that why you were headed into the gun shop?"

"A man's gotta have some protection. Lookin' for a derringer, and a shoulder holster. Just in case. Then supper. Why don't you join us?"

The invitation was sincere, and Doc Greeley appreciated it. "Thanks, but no. I've got a young man with a fever that's way too high I have to go tend. Some other time?"

Amy nodded. "Next time we come to town, Doc. Promise us?"

"Alright. Providing no one decides to have a baby that day. Be safe." Doc tipped his hat and hurried down the sidewalk.

"I hope your father is that understanding."

"He'll have to be, won't he?"

They walked into the gun shop and the proprietor seemed to be well aware of John's identity. "Yes sir, Mr. Holliday, what can I do for you?"

John looked at Amy and grinned. "I guess the secret's out." Then he turned back to the man behind the counter. "I need a Remington Derringer – the smallest one you've got. And a shoulder holster that fits it."

"Yes sir, right this way."

Amy busied herself with the Colt pistols and stayed away from John and the derringers. She didn't like guns but considered them necessary for survival. What John bought was strictly up to him. She'd rather he didn't carry one at all but understood his point about "somebody trying to make their reputation by killing Doc Holliday."

It didn't take him long to make a decision and slipped into the shoulder holster quite easily once the gun was paid for and loaded. "I thought you didn't like little guns," she told him as they left the shop.

"Who told you that?"

"Just something I heard," she answered.

"Hmmmmm. Maybe before, not now. I know you don't like 'em, but I have to have something. It's just asking to be shot to walk around without some kind of weapon."

"I know. I still don't have to like them."

"No, you don't. That's your right. But I'd like to stay alive." He grabbed her hand and pulled her close.

She looked at him like he was crazy and let go of him. "Anybody could see us."

"I thought that was the point. Are you ashamed of me?"

She looked horrified. "NO!"

He took her hand again. "Then prove it."

They walked into the hotel, then the dining room, and found a table. A waitress hurried over. "Folks, something to drink? Oh, the special tonight is steak and potatoes. Uh . . . . . . aren't you Doc Holliday?" The waitress's voice had gotten very quiet, as if she was afraid to even say the name.

"We'll have coffee, miss . . . . Susie. And you must be mistaken. My name's John Henry. Amy, do you want the steak? Yes? Ok – we'll both have the special. One rare, one well-done. Susie? Susie, did you hear me?"

"Oh yeah," Susie answered. "Sorry. Two specials, one rare, one burnt. And coffee." Susie hurried off, looking like she'd seen a ghost.

John started laughing and couldn't stop. "Guess I don't hafta shoot 'em anymore, I can just scare 'em to death."

Amy stared after the waitress, appalled. "How rude was that?"

He leaned over and ran his thumb down Amy's cheek. "Get used to it, Miss Amy. That's one of the more polite greetings I've gotten."

Amy brightened immediately. "Do you remember – "

"Don't get excited. Sort of, that's the best I can explain it."

Susie came back with the coffee pot and filled their cups. And scurried back to the kitchen as fast as she could go. John had to chuckle; the poor girl looked like she was scared to death. They didn't see her again until she brought supper and then returned with the coffee pot.

They were almost done eating when three cowhands wandered in and sat down. They watched John and Amy for a few minutes and then took to whispering among themselves. Susie scurried over to take their order and it became obvious that what they were after wasn't dinner so much as one of the diners.

XXXXXXXX

Bret couldn't remember the last time he'd seen Doc smile. Yet there the man stood, grinning ear to ear. "Bret, it's good to see you. Welcome back to Arizona!"

He almost looked around to see where the real Doc Holliday was, and who this imposter that greeted him so heartily could be. "Gosh, Doc, was I gone that long?"

"Yes." The answer was brief and succinct. "Don't ever do that to me again."

"I didn't do it to you Doc. I did it for Beau."

Doc looked downcast for about ten seconds and then perked back up. "How is the Englishman?"

"He's as Texan as I am, Doc, and he's not good. He's got Jody to lean on, but she's not doin' much better. I just couldn't stay any longer."

"Couldn't stand all the family togetherness, eh?"

Bret shook his head. "No, I needed to get back here. I've still got a brother to find."

"Bret, about that . . . . . "

"Any news, Doc?"

"No, that's just it. Nada. Nothing. Nary a word. It's time to give up, Bret. This is getting us nowhere fast. I don't like it either, but Bart's gone. How much longer can you look for a dead man?"

Bret looked Doc Holliday right in the eyes and turned into pure Maverick. "Until the day I die." Then he picked up his bag and walked past Doc into the hotel.


	15. Change in the Wind

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 14 – Change in the Wind

John knew they were being watched, but Amy had her back to the trail bums. The three men sat at their table and waited for Doc Holliday and his lady to finish their meal before making a move. John reached over and put his hand on top of Amy's. "Don't react – just listen. I need you to get up and walk out of here right now. Don't turn around and don't look back. Just leave and go get the sheriff as fast as you can."

"What – "

"Don't ask questions, Amy, just get up and go. Now."

She looked into his eyes and saw something she hadn't seen before, and it frightened her. "I love you." She put her napkin down, stood up and walked out of the dining room. As soon as she was gone all three of the cowboys pulled their guns and started shooting. John had already flipped the dining room table over in front of him and pulled the derringer out. _'Whatever happened to a good old fair fight?'_ he wondered. He glanced to the left and saw Susie run back into the kitchen, where he hoped she'd stay.

One of the men broke away from the table and moved to the right; John saw his chance and fired. The cowboy dropped and laid still.

"Bart! Bart! Answer me!" One of the two remaining men yelled at the fallen man.

"What? Who? Bart?" John wasn't sure what he'd heard. Why was that familiar? Where had he heard it before? He was stunned and confused, and so distracted that he didn't realize the second man had rushed him until he looked up and the attempted assassin was almost on top of him. John fired the final round into the attacker and the man dropped. Now he had a problem – one troublemaker left and no bullets. Before he knew what was transpiring the sheriff came running in shooting. He caught the third man in the arm and the gun dropped harmlessly to the ground.

"You alright?" the sheriff asked as he walked past John, gun still trained on the assailant.

"Yeah," the stunned gunslinger answered. "Good timing," he told the sheriff as he stood up from behind the table and showed the derringer. "Empty."

Amy came rushing in and stared at the carnage on the floor. Then she ran straight to John and threw her arms around him. He held her tightly with his left arm, the right hand still holding the now-empty derringer. One of them was shaking and he didn't know if it was him or Amy.

In another minute, a deputy appeared in the dining room and the sheriff handed over the wounded man. "Lock this one up and then send for Doc Greeley," he told his deputy, then turned to John and asked, "What happened?"

"They decided to use me for target practice. That's all I can tell you. Never saw 'em before."

The sheriff looked from one dead cowhand to the other. "You shoot 'em both?"

John nodded, "Yeah."

The sheriff turned his attention to the kitchen and motioned Susie out. She came reluctantly. "That the truth?"

Susie kept staring at John as she nodded. "Yes sir, Sheriff Donnelly. These folks were just eatin' their dinner when the three a them came in and sat down. The girl left and they started shootin'. He didn't even have a gun out." She finally put her head down and disappeared back into the kitchen.

"Sorry, Mr. – what did you say your name was?"

"John Holliday, Sheriff."

"Mr. Holliday, you're in the clear. Who knows what they had up their sleeves, but – say, Doc Holliday?"

"I've been called that before."

"Well, that's what they wanted. Be the man that killed Doc Holliday. You're free to go, Mr. Holliday. You might want to have Doc Greeley take a look at that arm."

It was then that he looked down. A bullet had just nicked his left arm, leaving nothing more than a flesh wound. But it wasn't the wound that troubled him – it was his reaction to the cry of "Bart! Bart! Answer me!" that disturbed him. Why had he been paralyzed by the words? Who the hell was Bart? Why had they stunned him so that he almost let one of the men take him by surprise? And again, who the hell was Bart?

He glanced down at Amy and realized she had been talking to him. " – let Doc look at it before we leave. Are you sure you're alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Doc doesn't need to see it. We can take care of it at the ranch. Let's go on back." She walked outside with him, still with her arm around him, and didn't care who saw.

They'd tried to kill him, for no reason other than he was Doc Holliday. Is that what his life was always like? Could she live with that, or would she be terrified that he wouldn't come back every time he walked out the door? He didn't even have a gun on, and they still tried to shoot him in cold-blood. And he was supposed to be the killer.

He helped Amy into the wagon and then climbed in behind her. He took the reins, despite the wound, and they left Mountain City. Life had just been forever changed.

XXXXXXXX

Bret was surprised the next morning when Doc followed him down the stairs to the dining room. He said nothing to the reputed gunslinger until they'd gotten a table and coffee, Doc with his usual half-cup. "Thought you'd be gone this morning."

"Nope." The normally reticent man was even more so right now.

Bret ordered breakfast and waited to see what Doc had to offer. They sat without talking for ten or fifteen minutes, and once Bret's food was delivered Doc watched him eat and smiled. "I still can't believe how different your appetite is from your brother's."

"You said 'is', Doc. Does that mean you've changed your mind about Bart's being dead?"

The answer was slow in coming. "No, I haven't. But I'm hoping I'm wrong. It's happened once or twice before."

Bret almost laughed, but Doc was so serious he thought better of it. "And that means - ?"

"That I'm going with you."

"You sure?"

"Completely."

"And you're not gonna keep telling me that he's dead?"

"Nope."

"Thanks, Doc."

"He'd do the same for me."

"Yeah, he would."

"We leavin' today?"

The coffee cup was drained, the napkin set down on the table. Bret was ready to go. "That's the plan, yeah."

"Where we goin'?"

"Someplace I've already been. I've got a hunch." The visit to one of the ranches had bothered Bret for months and he was determined to go back and investigate more thoroughly.

Doc was ready, he'd made up his mind last night. Wherever the search took them, as long as the search took them, he was in it all the way. Until they found Bart or the consumption killed him. He was hoping he'd live to see his friend again.


	16. The Sands of Time

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 15 – The Sands of Time

It was almost dark by the time they left Mountain City. The wind had begun to gust as the sun set and it was kicking up sand and soil by the time the wagon reached the half-way point. The further they traveled the worse it got until it became evident that it was too difficult to see to continue. John pulled off the road and unhitched the horses, then forced both of them to lie down and did his best to use their bodies as a shelter of sorts against the raging tempest. He utilized the blanket they had with them to make sure Amy was completely covered, protecting her with his own body as the dirt and dust swirled furiously around them.

It was hard to breathe, but Amy was sheltered from the storm's worst. John and the horses weren't so lucky, they took the brunt of it. The wind blew like a furious gale for hours, well into the night. By the time it finally started to die down he'd swallowed as much as he'd inhaled, and both his stomach and his lungs were on fire. The coughing that had begun to slow down in the previous weeks resumed, every bit as bad as it had been immediately following the rockslide.

Amy finally peeked out from under the protective cover to find the poor man on his knees, retching and coughing, one more severe than the next. She shook the sand and debris from the blanket, then wrapped it around John, who was shuddering as an after-effect of his bodies reaction to the foreign invasion. "Aren't you cold?" he questioned, and she shook her head 'no.'

Miraculously their cargo survived the gale, the heavier goods on top holding down the lightweight items. John had packed a wagon before; that didn't surprise her. Nothing the man could do surprised her anymore. The horses were back on their feet and Amy started to hitch them to the wagon. Before she knew it, John was next to her, wrapping her in the blanket and finishing the job. He got her in the wagon and had to stop and vomit again before finally climbing up in the seat next to her. Amy took the reins; John was too sick to do much besides sit next to her and try to remain upright.

They were almost back to the ranch when Gage, Pete, and Jess appeared on the horizon, having saddled horses as soon as they were able and set out to find the missing travelers. "Are you alright?" Gage called out when he was close enough to be heard.

"I'm fine," Amy answered. "John's not. He protected me from the storm, but he was out in it. He's really sick, Dad. I think he swallowed most of it."

Her father and Pete dismounted while Jess held the horses. The two men got John down from the wagon seat and helped lay him in the bed of the wagon; Amy climbed in the back and tucked the blanket around him. Pete handed her the jacket Gage had brought with him and mounted, Gage climbed into the wagon seat and took the reins. When they finally got to the ranch Pete moved the horses to the barn, then he and Jess unloaded the wagon. Gage and Amy helped John inside and into bed; the queasy stomach had subsided, but the coughing continued unabated.

"What was that?" John managed to get out, in between choking spasms.

"A dust storm. We have 'em once or twice a year. You did the right thing, with the horses and the blanket. But you shoulda been under there with Amy." Gage brought John a glass of water and he drank most of it before the coughing and hacking started again.

"Couldn't take the chance. She had to be protected. We'd a been back sooner if – " He stopped talking, realizing that he'd have to explain the trail bums and the shootout in the hotel.

"It was my fault, daddy. I took too long shopping." Amy might be willing to take the blame and cover for him now, but Gage was bound to find out the truth sooner or later. _'Please, not tonight,'_ Amy's look spoke volumes. John abided by her wishes and said nothing further.

Gage stood up and yawned. "You're safe, that's all the matters. Better get to bed. Morning comes early." He said goodnight and kissed Amy on the cheek, then turned back to John before leaving. "Thanks for taking care of my daughter." He disappeared down the hall.

"I'm glad you didn't get hurt by those idiots that attacked us in the hotel. I was scared to death."

John continued coughing every few minutes, worse than he had for a long time, but finally spoke and corrected her. "They were after me, Amy. Not you. Me. I'm the hazard to your health."

"You are not. You're the man I love."

"Yeah. I'm so good for you that I could've gotten you killed tonight, just because you were there with me."

"Don't say that. You didn't do anything wrong."

John sighed. "That's just it. I didn't have to DO anything wrong. I just AM wrong. You'll never be safe with me around."

"Don't talk that way. I don't like the way it sounds." She started to leave the room and he grabbed her hand.

"Don't go. Lay next to me. Don't leave me alone." He looked up at her with those eyes and she couldn't say no.

She lay in the crook of his arm and saw the rip in his shirt where the bullet had grazed him earlier. "We didn't get your arm taken care of."

"It's alright. It's just a scratch." He was so tense, and just when she felt him start to relax another coughing spasm shook him. The coughing was worse instead of better.

"Do you want some more water? It'll help your throat."

"No. I just want you to lay here with me. I need you . . . . . . close."

It was reassuring to lay next to him. He was warm and protective, and as long as she stayed in his arms she felt safe. John lay awake the rest of the night, turning everything over in his mind. No matter how everything played out it didn't take him long to decide. He knew what he had to do. And he had to do it soon.


	17. Clean Britches

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 16 – Clean Britches

The next morning found John the first one up, probably because he never slept. Cora had a pot of coffee ready and he took a cup out to the porch and sat down, wanting a smoke but not willing to re-disturb his finally calming lungs. Within a few minutes Gage Stanhope joined him, drinking his own coffee and looking like a man with something weighing heavily on his mind.

"How ya feelin' this morning?"

John chuckled and took a sip of coffee. "A whole lot better than last night, I'll tell ya that."

"Yeah, that's usually what happens when some a the dirt tries to move from outside to inside."

There was a silence between them that foreshadowed a conversation to come. When fifteen minutes passed John finally brought up the unspoken subject. "About last night – "

"Something you didn't say?"

"Yeah. Somethin' happened in town."

"Something Amy didn't want me to know about?"

"Yeah." More silence, followed by "How'd you know?"

"She's been my daughter for almost twenty-five years, John. I know when she's not telling me something. How bad was it?"

"Bad enough. Three saddle tramps tried to make their reputations by ambushing Doc Holliday."

"With Amy there?" Gage's voice had risen considerably in volume.

John shook his head, intent on calming her father down before things got out of hand. "No, I'd already sent her out before the shooting started."

Stanhope sighed and quieted down considerably. "And?"

"Two dead, one arrested." He glanced at the torn shirt on his left arm. "One slightly winged. One totally safe."

Gage shook his head. "Not totally safe. Not as long as she's around you."

"I know." John exhaled slowly. Somehow this was all too familiar. "I know what I need to do."

"And that would be?"

"How about selling me Noble?"

"No, I won't sell you Noble. But I'll give him to you. The horse thinks he's yours, anyway. Maybe he is." A pause while Gage figured out exactly how to word what he wanted to say. "Thanks for giving me back my daughter. Both times yesterday. She's gonna be inconsolable for a while."

John nodded. "She'll get over it."

"You're the first man she's loved in a long time."

"I won't be the last."

Gage looked right at the gunslinger. "No, probably not. But at least she'll be alive after . . . . . . after you're gone. Sorry, I don't know how else to put that."

John turned to look at the father of the woman he loved and finally smiled. "That's alright, it's the truth. She'll live a lot longer than I do. And I'm grateful for that."

"So am I. When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow. Don't say anything, Gage. I don't like long goodbyes."

"You have my word. I was wrong about you, John, I'm happy to say. If people could know you, the way we do – "

"They'd still have no use for me. But thanks for that, I'm glad for once to prove somebody wrong." He averted his eyes and said very quietly, "Take good care of her, Gage. She's sure one hell of a woman. I'm gonna miss her."

If Gage Stanhope had been able to see John's eyes, he would have recognized the pain, and longing for an ordinary life, and might have told him to stay. But it was all there in his voice, and then it was gone as he finished, "Thanks for everything. You've been real good to me, and I appreciate it."

Gage offered his hand, and John shook it. "Godspeed, John Holliday. I hope you find what you're looking for."

John left his thought unspoken. _'I already did.'_

XXXXXXXX

Doc insisted they take the long way around the Superstition Mountains. "I'm not givin' those mountains a second crack at me," he told Bret as they saddled their horses.

"No argument from me," answered the man that he'd really, finally bonded with. "They seem to have it in for the Mavericks. We can cut south about halfway around them."

"Where we headed, anyway?"

"A big spread called 'Stanhope Ranch.' Folks were nice enough, but there just seemed somethin' off about the answers they gave me. Besides, I had the oddest feeling that Bart was close – I mean really close. I didn't push harder when I was there because I just couldn't figure out why they'd lie to me. And I was so worn down to nothin' that I wasn't thinkin' straight. But I've heard some things since then that make me wonder what I missed."

"That's what happens when you talk to people. Give 'em half a chance and they'll lie to ya."

Bret shook his head and laughed a low, sad laugh. "Can't be that suspicious, Doc. If there's a lie there's usually a reason for the lie."

Doc snorted, ever the skeptic. "And the reason for this lie would be?"

"If it is a lie. I don't know, but I'm sure as hell gonna find out." Bret double-checked the cinch on his horse and mounted. "You ready to go?"

"Onward Christian soldiers," Doc intoned.

"I'll take it that was a yes."

Doc laughed as he mounted his horse. "Lead on, MacDuff."

XXXXXXXX

John sat on the porch so long after Gage left the ranch that Cora brought the coffee pot out and refilled his cup. Things were peaceful and quiet, a dearth of noise that he'd come to enjoy and would no doubt miss. Noble whinnied from the paddock and John watched the horse toss his head and trot around, lord and master of his domain for the moment. He was thinking about going for a ride when barely audible footsteps approached from the house. He turned his head just in time to catch the kiss that Amy was about to plant on his cheek.

"Good morning, sleepyhead," he greeted her.

"Morning. You're up awfully early. Is there a reason for that?"

"Never slept."

"Something wrong?"

"Nope. Just not sleepy."

She looked at him and wondered if he was being truthful. "After what we went through yesterday?"

He shrugged. "Sleep comes and goes with me."

"Did you see my father this morning?"

"Yep."

"Did he ask about last night?"

He wasn't going to lie to her now. "No, I told him."

Amy shook her head as she drank her coffee. "You're a braver man than I am, John Holliday. How'd he take it?"

"He wasn't happy, if that's what you mean."

"Better than I'd expected him to. You're still alive."

He nodded. "Yep. So far."

"When are you goin' gamblin', gamblin' man?"

"Couple days from now." That was the truth. As soon as he got out of the territory he intended to do the one thing he was sure he could still do.

"Back in Mountain City?"

"Maybe. Maybe Dry Gulch, or Borderton. Not sure yet. Might not go back to Mountain City because of the trouble." That was still true. He might go to any of those places to play poker, or he might go down to Tucson, and then on to Mexico. Something about Mexico was appealing, almost like he'd fled south of the border once before, over another woman.

"And on the agenda for today?"

"Don't know yet."

"How about lunch at the mine?"

Oh, God. He'd tried to avoid the mine, knowing how close they'd come to consummating their relationship the last time they were there. But if he told her 'no' she'd try to find out why and wouldn't be happy until he'd given her a reason. Finally, "Sure. Let's take a bottle of that wine with us that your father keeps." Amy loved the wine and usually fell asleep after the first glass.

"Oooh, a special occasion. Why not? We've been through enough lately. It's about time for a little enjoyment. Ride out at eleven o'clock? That way we have plenty of time to enjoy the day."

"Eleven is good. Think Cora'd kill me if I asked her to heat bath water? I feel like I'm carryin' about ten pounds of desert around with me."

"Then she's gonna kill both of us. I feel the same way. I'm not goin' anywhere without a bath. We could save Cora a lot of trouble and take ONE bath, you know." Amy giggled mischievously as soon as she said it.

"Sure. I bet your father would just love that."

"It wasn't daddy that I was thinking about making happy."

As serious as everything was, even John had to laugh at that. "Have you no shame, woman?"

"Absolutely none, sir."

He stretched and stood up. "Come on, let's go see who she gets maddest at."

"You, no doubt. I'm much cuter."

"Yeah, but I'm more charming." He smiled at her, and she stuck her tongue out at him. At that exact moment, she'd never been happier in her life.


	18. The Long Goodbye

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 17 – The Long Goodbye

Camping with Doc Holiday left a lot to be desired. He snored worse than Bret. He made lousy coffee. He couldn't go to sleep and he didn't want to wake up. And he complained constantly that the ground was hard.

"Of course it's hard, Doc, it's the ground. It's supposed to be hard."

"Not this damn hard. You'd think we were in the desert or something."

Bret sighed. Better not say anything or Doc would get mad and complain all night. With any luck at all they'd only have to sleep on the ground one more time and then there'd be a hotel room and blessed relief.

"What if he's alive and he's not Bart anymore?"

"What?"

"I said – "

"I know what you said, Doc, I just don't know what you meant."

"You know, he's not the same person."

"I'll take him any way I can get him, Doc. "

"Yeah, I would, too."

There was silence for a few minutes and Bret thought maybe Doc had drifted off. Just as the gambler was about to slip into sleep himself Doc turned over and asked another question. "What if he just doesn't wanna be found?"

"I don't believe he'd do that. It's been almost a year and there's been no trace of him at all. It's like he just fell off the face of the earth. Even when Caroline – well, even when he had the need to disappear, he finally resurfaced. Nope, there's a reason we haven't heard anything."

Silence again. Then, finally, "What reason?"

"I don't know, Doc. We'll find out. Go to sleep, would ya? I'm tired."

"Sure. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Doc." Under his breath, as he had every night for almost a year, he whispered, "Goodnight, Brother Bart."

XXXXXXXX

Ah, it was good to be clean again! Even if he did have to wait an extra half-hour for hot water because he'd let Amy take a bath first.

Clean clothes felt good, too, but when he picked up his hat it was beyond saving and he was forced to wear the new gray hat he'd bought yesterday. He got the strangest feeling when he put it on and looked down at the tan hat he'd been forced to abandon. It was almost like déjà vu but he had no idea what the memory was he was evoking. He finally shrugged and strode out to the front room, grateful that he no longer needed the crutch or the cane to walk. Every once in a great while his ribs hurt, almost like they'd been broken more than once and hadn't healed properly the first time.

The house was empty; even Cora was nowhere in sight. He stepped out onto the front porch and both Cooper and Noble were standing at the hitching rail, saddled and ready to go. He heard Amy's footsteps on the stairs and she came running out with a bottle of her father's wine and wearing one of the new riding skirts she'd bought in town yesterday. "Right on time," he told her as she handed him the wine and almost jumped into the saddle. He deposited the bottle in his saddlebags and closed them up, then mounted Noble and led the way out the back gate. The gelding turned and gave him an ugly stare as if disgruntled at having to wear a saddle.

They took the ride slow and easy today. John knew this was his last trip to the mine and he wanted to remember every step of the way. He knew he'd made the right decision for Amy's sake; that didn't mean he was happy about it. As far as he knew, the memory of today would have to last the rest of his life, however long or short that was.

He spread the blanket under the pine trees, and Amy surprised him with fried chicken and cornbread, stored in her saddlebags when she retrieved the horses. She had glasses in there, too, and he opened the wine and poured some for each of them. "A toast!" she cried and raised her glass.

"To what?" he asked her.

"To us, Amy Stanhope and John Holliday. To the beginning of all the things yet to come." They clinked glasses and Amy downed almost half of hers. John couldn't drink that fast; the wine was dark, rich, and sweet, almost too sweet for him.

She unwrapped the chicken and corn bread and they dug in, both surprised that they were as hungry as they were. When they'd finished everything but the bones and their appetite was sated, John poured more wine and they drank again. The remaining wine was set aside with the glasses and Amy lay on her back and gazed up at the man she loved. She ran her fingertips down the side of his face and he kissed those fingertips and held them to his lips; how could he ever let her go?

"Why so sad?" she asked him, and he knew she could sense something wrong. He leaned down to kiss her and closed his eyes, and he was lost in the smell of her, and the taste of her, and he gathered her into his arms and kissed her as he'd kissed no other woman in his life. And he thought that it would kill him if he didn't have her right there, right now, and the only thing that stopped him was the voice in his head that kept saying, "You're leaving tomorrow, you mustn't do this, you're leaving, stop, stop, STOP!" and finally he forced himself to pull away from her.

"Don't stop, John," she whispered sleepily, and he brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her lips tenderly, gently, knowing that she had drifted off into slumber and would always be there in his dreams, waiting for him. He laid back and held her in his arms for the last time, closing his eyes and joining her in sleep so peaceful that the rest of the afternoon passed while they dreamt of building a life together, a life that wasn't meant to be, the only life that John Holliday and Amy Stanhope would ever have.

XXXXXXXX

When they woke, it was late afternoon and there was a chill in the air. The seasons were beginning to change, from early to late fall, and when the sun started to set the nighttime chill snuck in the door. John and Amy both put on their jackets and proceeded to gather the wine and the blanket, storing one in Amy's saddlebags and the other in John's. He gazed out into the twilight and took the whole scene in one last time; the old mine, the pine trees, the patch of ground where they'd come oh-so-close to being lovers in every sense of the word.

He was sad that it wasn't to be; he'd longed to hold her warm, naked body against his and truly possess her, but he was glad that she'd still have her dignity when he was at last gone. That was the one gift that he could honestly give her, knowing that when she found the man to spend the rest of her life with she could belong to him completely, with no reservations and no regrets.

They rode back to the ranch just as slowly as they'd ridden out to the mine, almost as if willing time to quit passing so quickly. John was quiet and introspective; Amy knew there was something going on in his mind but had no intention of prying. When they got home he took both the horses to the barn and gave Noble a good rubdown. In just a few hours it would be dark and time to leave. "Have a good last night, old man," he told the gelding as he turned him loose in his stall.

Supper was as crazy and noisy as usual, with everybody trying to talk at once and nobody getting a word in edgewise. It was Friday night and time for the weekly poker game down in the bunkhouse, but John begged off due to lack of sleep the night before. When he kissed Amy goodnight it wasn't the normal peck on the cheek, I'll see you in the morning kiss, but rather a goodbye forever and I love you with all my heart kiss. Amy almost asked him why the difference and then thought better of it, chalking it up to John's rather odd mood all day.

He didn't go to bed, instead he packed his belongings and then sat down to write Amy a letter. When that was finished he turned out his light and lay on the bed in the dark so she would think him asleep when the poker game broke up. Right before midnight he heard her come down the hall, then turn and go upstairs to her own room when she saw his light off. He waited for almost an hour until he was sure she was asleep, before getting up and quietly leaving the house via the back door.

He went to the barn and stopped Noble from whinnying with a carrot. The gelding gave him another odd look, as if to say "Didn't we just get home?" but stood calmly while John saddled him for the trip ahead. Once completed, he took one last look around and led Noble out of the barn and away from the house. He swung his bag up on the horse and mounted, careful to make as little noise as possible. He'd been here so long it almost felt like leaving home for the first time.

Sometime close to two a.m. John Holliday turned his horse and headed south, saying goodbye to the Stanhope Ranch, the only home he remembered, and the woman he would always love. What lay ahead of him he couldn't know for sure, but he would never forget what lay behind him.


	19. Perchance to Dream

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 18 – Perchance to Dream

It was late when she woke and wondered why she'd slept so long. Usually, John came in with a cup of coffee for her but this morning he hadn't appeared. She dressed and made her way downstairs, stopping in the pantry for coffee and a quick 'good morning' with Cora. "Has John gotten up yet?" she asked the long-time housekeeper.

"Haven't seen him," Cora answered, and Amy walked down the hall to his room. The door was still closed so she knocked softly, and when she got no response she knocked louder. Still no answer, so she opened the door and went in. No John.

' _Up early and out for a ride?_ ' she wondered, so she slipped out the back door and headed for the barn. As suspected, Noble was gone, but something else caught her attention. John had a habit of early morning rides with Noble bareback, and the horse's saddle was missing. She tried to fight down rising panic as she ran back to his room. He'd been so odd yesterday, almost like he was saying . . . . . . .

She checked the closet, then the drawers in the dresser. Everything he owned was gone. And then she saw it – the piece of paper sitting on the dresser with her name on it. She was shaking so bad by the time she unfolded the letter that she could barely read it.

 _Dearest Amy – I've never written a goodbye letter before, so I'm not sure how I'll do. You know by now that I'm gone, and I'm not coming back. Please don't look for me, this is hard enough as it is._

 _With the first shots that were fired in Mountain City I knew I had to leave. What kind of a life would it be for either of us, with me always looking over my shoulder to see who was following us and you always waiting for the knock on the door that wasn't mine. Don't ever doubt my love for you, Amy, I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, and I can tell you that for a fact. Go ahead and hate me if you must, but please know that I will love you for the rest of my life, however long that is._

 _That's why I have to go; I couldn't bear it if something happened to you. In time this will all feel like a dream, and I'll be nothing more than a memory. I hope it's a good memory, something you can tell your grandchildren when it's time. Yes, you can say, I was once loved by the infamous Doc Holliday. With me he was kind, and gentle, and sweet, and he gave me all he had to give._

 _I hope you have a beautiful life, filled with love and laughter and lots of children. Remember me when you have your firstborn, and know that the freedom to have that child is the gift I gave you._

 _My heart will always belong to you, no matter where I am._

 _John_

She screamed and dropped the letter, then dissolved into gut-wrenching sobs. Cora came running and enveloped Amy in her arms until Gage arrived, having stayed close this morning for just such a moment.

She wept for long minutes as Cora retrieved the letter from the floor and handed it to Amy's father. He read it silently and then folded it back up and tightened his grip on his little girl. "He didn't love me!" Amy wailed, and her father let her grieve for a few minutes more before beginning the 'comforting' process.

"Shhh, baby, shhh, yes he did love you. That's why he left, so you wouldn't get hurt by somebody tryin' to kill him. Believe me, he loved you." He held her and rocked her while she slowly cried herself out.

"Y-y-y-you knew, didn't you?" she choked out between hiccups.

Their entire relationship was built on mutual trust, and he wouldn't violate that trust now. "He told me."

"When?" All she could think of was how odd John seemed all day yesterday.

"The morning after the shootings."

"And you didn't tell me."

Gage chuckled softly. "John asked me not to." Then he got serious and tried to determine exactly how to ask her the question he hoped he knew the answer to. "Did you - I mean, did he – I mean, did the two of you – "

She shook her head. She knew exactly what he was asking, and why John had suggested the bottle of wine yesterday. "No, we didn't. We drank wine at lunch and both fell asleep. That's why he wanted me to bring it. You know how I am with your wine. One glass and I'm sleeping."

Gage exhaled slowly. Then he told his beloved daughter just what he'd told the man that loved her, two days ago. "I was wrong about him, Amy. I don't know what he was like before, and I don't know what he'll be like again, but the man that was here with us was a good man. A gentleman, from beginning to end. I've never been so happy to be wrong in my whole life."

Her father's declaration made her smile through her tears. "Yes, he was a good man. A good man who loved me."

XXXXXXXX

He found shelter about twenty miles south of Stanhope Ranch after riding all night. It was time to rest for both him and Noble, and this looked like as good a place as any. He was worn out from the battle raging in his head, with the 'You did the right thing' contingent on one side and the 'You're an idiot for leaving' voices on the other.

He removed the saddle and Noble tossed his head and whinnied, still trying to figure out just what was going on. Where were they going? Where was home? Why was he wearing that damn saddle?

"Sorry, old man, the saddle has to go with us. I know you don't like it, but for now we're both stuck. Let's get some sleep, huh?"

He made a bed in the shade of the palo verde trees, using the saddle as a pillow, and laid down to rest. He wasn't sure sleep was possible yet, but he hadn't sat that long in the saddle for quite a while and needed a break, whether sleep visited or stayed away.

He was exhausted, whether he knew it or not, and fell asleep quickly. He walked into the strangest dream, and had no idea who the people talked about in it were . . . . . .

 _He rested his arm on the back of the swing, behind Any's shoulders. After all this time together it still sent a chill up his spine to touch her, and he waited with eager anticipation for that moment. Rebecca and Gage played in the front yard, running and yelling and laughing as loud as any other four-year-olds. Gage threw a pretend stick at his twin and Rebecca threw it right back. No sissy girl was the older of the two; she was a tomboy through and through. "Stop it, Becca!" her mother yelled at her from the porch._

" _Aw, let her alone," John responded to his wife. "Somebody has to keep her brother in line – it might as well be her."_

" _Honestly, John, I think you enjoy the fact that she's never going to grow up to be a lady." Amy was laughing as she said it._

 _There was a shriek from one of the twins and Gage ran for the porch, crying. "DADDY!" He ran into his father's arms and sobbed. "Becca hit me for real! Make her stop!" John held the little boy close to him while Amy beckoned their daughter over. "Rebecca Jean Holliday! You get over here right now."_

 _Becca scurried over to the porch and laid her head in her mother's lap, right next to where the new baby was growing. She looked up with her mother's big amber eyes and smiled that charming Holliday smile. "I didn't hit him, momma. He's just a big baby, just like Uncle Bret."_

 _John pulled his son away from his shoulder and looked in his eyes. "Is that true, Gage?"_

 _The little boy cast his eyes downward and quietly whispered, "Yes, sir."_

 _John sighed and held him close again, shaking his head all the while. "Why do you tell stories like that, son? Are you trying to get Becca in trouble?"_

 _There was a mischievous gleam in Gage's eyes as he answered honestly, "Yes, daddy."_

 _John laughed again. "Just like your Uncle, aren't you?" He held the wiggling four-year-old high in his arms and continued laughing. "What am I going to do with you?" he wondered out loud._

" _Play cards with me, Daddy." The four-year-olds immediate answer._

" _Me too," Becca demanded enthusiastically._

" _You heard them," Amy offered. "Take them in and play. I'll finish supper."_

" _Alright, sweet thing," he answered his wife. He set Gage down on the ground and helped Amy to her feet. It wouldn't be long now before the baby was born. His Brother Bret and Lily, his wife, were coming to stay for a while and help with the twins when the newest member of the Holliday clan arrived. The twins ran into the house, ahead of their mother and father. From professional gunslinger to family man and rancher, who would have believed it? Certainly not him, he thought as he followed the love of his life and their almost three children inside . . . . . . ._

He woke in a cold sweat, confused and disturbed. Uncle Bret? Who was that? And why would he dream about a brother he didn't have? The part about the twins he understood; in his heart of hearts he'd always wanted a family, even though he knew he should never have one. And Amy . . . . . what sweet thoughts of Amy. His wife, the mother of his children, his angel . . . . .

He'd slept most of the day; it was time to get up and ride again. He needed to get to Tucson, to go back to playing poker and take his mind off things he couldn't or wouldn't change. Noble was restless, sensing his owner's unease and waiting to get up and run somewhere. John built a fire and made coffee, then heated a can of beans and ate, only because his body required nourishment to keep going. The only thing that even began to entice his senses was thoughts of Amy, and those were going to do him no good at all. He drank two quick cups of coffee and poured the rest on the fire to douse it, then got up and repacked his saddlebags.

"You ready, Noble?" The horse whinnied in answer and then snorted his displeasure when John saddled him. The fire was out, the saddlebags were packed, horse and rider were ready to go. He took a quick look north and then forced himself to turn to the southern trail in front of him. Looking back would do no good at all, he needed to focus on the future and whatever lay ahead, rather than the past and the pain in his heart. Another night of riding would bring him that much closer to his new life. He sighed and urged Noble forward towards the southern star.


	20. The Walls Close In

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 19 – The Walls Close In

Less than forty-eight hours later Amy Stanhope's world was once again turned upside-down. She forced herself out of bed, against her better judgment, because her father had threatened to throw a bucket of water on her if she hid under the covers one more day. There was no time for extended grieving on a working ranch, and Gage had indulged her as much as he could.

She'd moved into the downstairs bedroom that John had occupied all those months, just to feel closer to him. She knew it was probably senseless, but it made her feel better. She changed clothes listlessly and shuffled down the hall for coffee, the only thing capable of keeping her awake. If she was this miserable two days after John left, how was she going to get through the rest of her life?

Cora was working on lunch already and smiled when she saw Amy. "Your daddy could use some help outside, Miss Amy," she informed the desolate young woman.

"Why? What's he doing, building a wall to keep gunslingers out of here?"

The housekeepers head shook 'no.' "No, two fellas just rode up, looking for Mr. John. Remember some months back when that Maverick boy came around here askin' after his brother? Well, he's back, and this time he's got – "

Amy didn't wait for Cora to finish. She ran outside and found Gage talking to the brother, who'd gotten down off his horse and was gesturing to the man still on horseback, who looked skeptical and none too happy. Dressed in black from head to foot, he reminded her of a surly version of John. It took her a minute to realize they were talking about the man she loved. Both of them stopped talking and the brother, who looked considerably better than he had the last time he was here, tipped his hat to her, as did the surly man on horseback.

"You remember my daughter, Amy? Amy, Bret Maverick and - "

Amy cut her father off before he could introduce the man on the horse. "I remember. What do you want, Mr. Maverick? We told you before your brother wasn't here."

Gage was appalled at Amy's rudeness and interrupted her. "Amy, that's no way to treat guests. You have to listen to the man."

"Why should I? He's got nothing to say that I'm interested in, anyway."

Maverick just stood there, silent, and waited for Amy's hostility to play itself out. Gage looked at the stranger and said, "Go ahead. Show it to her."

Bret reached for something in his coat and took it out for Amy to look at. "That's my brother, Miss Stanhope. Do you recognize him?"

He handed her the photo and she glanced at it casually, then looked more thoroughly as it caught her attention. It was a picture of a younger Bret Maverick with his brother, both in Confederate uniforms. Bret had his arm around his brother Bart, who was saluting the photographer. She stared at the brother's face. Though considerably younger looking, it was no doubt a photo of the man she knew as John Henry Holliday.

XXXXXXXX

John threw two cards down on the table. "Two, Mr. Dealer," he intoned. The dealer passed two cards across the table and John picked them up. Hmmm. A king and a deuce. That gave him three of a kind, all deuces. The cowboy to his left shoved four chips into the center of the table. "Two hundred."

Betting went around the table, with the dealer and the rancher to his immediate left folding. The undertaker to John's right called, which brought it back around to John. He moved eight chips into the pot. "Your two and two more," he offered, and the undertaker laid his cards face down on the table.

"I fold," the death broker stated.

The cowboy grinned an ugly, almost toothless smile. "Call," and he shoved four more chips onto the pile in the center. "Let's see 'em, tinhorn."

John glared at the cowboy, who should have stopped drinking a long time before he started playing. He laid his cards down and said quietly, "Three deuces."

"That's bull," the cowboy called. "You haven't lost a hand since I sat down. How're you doin' that without dealin'?"

"You accusing me of doing something crooked?" John asked. His voice was even and steady, but his eyes were on fire.

"I'm – " the cowboy started, interrupted almost immediately by the undertaker.

"I'd be real careful what I said if I were you unless you'd like to end up as my next customer," the man in the black suit said.

"Why's that, grandpa?" The cowboy snickered.

It was the rancher's turn this time. "Do you know who you're accusing of cheating, you idiot?"

The clueless cowboy shook his head. "Nope. Don't much care."

The rancher smiled as he asked, "Ever heard of Doc Holliday?"

As if to reinforce the statement, John coughed for several minutes. Whether it was the dust still in his lungs or the consumption didn't much matter. By the time he quit the cowboy's eyes were as big as saucers and he was stuttering. "D-D-D-Doc Holliday?" He swiveled his head around to stare at John. "You?"

"I've been called that a time or two," John answered and smiled slyly.

No man had ever moved as fast as the cowboy did. He grabbed his hat and jumped to his feet, all in one fluid motion. "S-S-S-Sorry, Mr. Holliday." And he was gone.

John, the rancher and the undertaker all burst out laughing. The dealer was the only one who sat there, stony-faced. "You just took ten years off that boys life."

"Because we told him the truth?" the rancher asked, still laughing.

"No, because you made it sound like he was in imminent danger of dying."

"Maybe he was, friend. We're all in imminent danger of dying from one thing or another." John was no longer smiling. Just then he went into another coughing spasm as if to illustrate his point. He reached for the coffee cup instead of the whiskey glass; he still didn't like the taste of the liquor. Once he put the cup back down he told the dealer, "We were just tryin' to have a little fun."

"That was your idea of fun?"

"Considering what my life has been like for the last year, yeah, that was my idea of fun."

One of the saloon girls brought the coffee pot over and filled John's cup. "I get off in an hour, Doc."

"I remember, Sascha. I'll be ready." She smiled at him and took the coffee back where it belonged. She was the opposite of Amy – tall and dark, with eyes that were almost black and lashes long enough to braid. She had a sweet smile and a body to die for, and she'd taken a shine to John as soon as he got there. They'd been sleeping together ever since.

A new player walked up to the table. "Seat available, gentlemen?"

"Sure, sit down," the rancher answered. "My name's John Benning."

"Gil Stafford," the undertaker volunteered.

"Paul Davids," from the dealer.

"Jimmy Fitzgerald," the new man stated. He turned to John. "And you, sir?"

"John Holliday."

"The John Holliday?"

"The only one I know of, Mr. Fitzgerald. Have a seat."

"I'm honored, Mr. Holliday. I didn't know you were in Tucson."

"Just got here three days ago, Mr. Fitzgerald. Been out of touch for quite a while."

The new man was curious. "Oh? Sick?"

John nodded. "In a manner of speaking. Got caught in a rockslide in the Superstition Mountains almost a year ago. Broke more bones than I knew I had. Been out of circulation since then."

Fitzgerald's ears perked up. "In the Superstitions, you say? I ran into a fella, another gambler, names Maverick, lookin' for his brother. Got caught in a rockslide in the Superstitions. Coincidence? You ridin' with somebody then?"

John shook his head. "Naw, I saw the guy, too. Don't know him or his brother. Must be a coincidence. Maybe it happened before, or after." The cards were dealt and John picked his up. Something about the hand was familiar. Aces full, over eights. He'd had this hand before. Where?

Jimmy Fitzgerald looked confused. "This Maverick insisted his brother was ridin' with you."

"Man's wrong, I was alone. Don't know either of the Mavericks."

"Well, wouldn't be the first time somebody's made a mistake. Won't be the last. I'll open for a hundred."

The dealer called, as did the rancher and the undertaker. John threw in two hundred. "See yours and raise a hundred."

The betting went around the table, one more time. Everybody called, and cards were requested. Two, one, one, two, until it got to John. "Stand."

They went around again, Fitzgerald and Holliday raising each other until they were the only two left. Finally John called, and his opponent laid down Queens full. "Sorry, Fitzgerald, Aces full over eights." Just then Sascha walked up behind John and whispered something in his ear. He laughed and raked in the pot, telling the dealer, "Cash me in, Paul. The lady's waiting." Paul Davids did so, and John put almost thirty-six hundred dollars into his wallet.

He tipped his hat to the table. "Gentlemen, it's been a pleasure. Let's do this again real soon." He offered Sascha his arm and she took it, walking away from the table and out the door with Doc Holliday.

Jimmy Fitzgerald shook his head. "I don't understand that. This Maverick fella was positive that his brother was ridin' with Doc. Could he have forgotten?"

Benning nodded. "The man's dying of consumption, Mr. Fitzgerald. I would imagine he forgets a lot of things."

"Still, if you know a man well enough to ride with him – "

"Let it go, Fitzgerald. Doc doesn't want to remember, for whatever reason. Man's entitled to his secrets."

"Even if he remembers things wrong?"

"Even then."


	21. Would the Real Doc Holliday Please Stand

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 20 – Would the Real Doc Holliday Please Stand Up?

She stared at the photo that Maverick had handed her, with everything and at the same time nothing going through her mind. "But this is – I mean – it looks like – it can't be. This is your brother. This is your brother?"

Bret nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Bart Maverick?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"But it can't be. This is John."

"John Henry Holliday?" the man in black astride the horse asked.

Amy looked at him. "Yes," she answered in a small voice.

"That would be me," Doc answered.

"But how can you – I mean he's – I thought – I don't understand."

Maverick turned to the man on the horse. "Come on down, Doc. You get to explain this one."

Doc sighed. This was one of the times when being Doc Holliday was indeed a burden. He got down off his horse and tied the reins to the hitching post. Gage Stanhope saved him from having to explain everything while they were out on the porch.

"Gentlemen, why don't we go inside? I've got coffee and whiskey, and we can talk in comfort."

Doc brightened considerably at the mention of 'whiskey.' "Mr. Stanhope, lead the way."

They all went inside, Amy fidgeting and unable to stand still. She got the cups and the coffee pot from Cora and poured for everyone, Doc taking his usual half and half mixture. Finally she could stand it no longer. "Mr. Holliday - Doc – please explain. The man that I knew as John Holliday – we're in love. He left because of me. He's not – I mean, you are – he's really Bart Maverick?"

"Slow down, Miss Stanhope. Yes, he's really Bart Maverick, my friend and Bret's brother. We were in Apache Junction almost a year ago and some cowboy wouldn't leave me alone, so I told him I was Bart Maverick and Bart was Doc Holliday. Just to pull off the ruse, we traded wallets one night so I had 'proof' that I was actually Maverick. We left the next day and forgot to switch wallets back – so when we started across the mountains, we had each other's identification. The rockslide caught us mid-way – the difference was I got slammed into a tree and knocked out. Bart must have been drug all the way down the mountain – I found his horse with a broken neck, but I couldn't find Bart. My arm was broken and I made it back to Apache Junction. By the time I got a search party organized and out there to look for him you'd already rescued him. They looked for days and couldn't find him or a trace of him. How bad was he hurt?"

Amy didn't know whether to be sad that she'd inadvertently kept the brothers apart for so long or overjoyed that the man she loved wasn't an infamous gunfighter. "It was bad, Mr. Holliday. His whole right side - A fractured shoulder, broken collarbone, arm shattered in two places, three broken ribs, and his foot was crushed and broken in several spots. But I one thing don't understand – we thought he had consumption, he coughed so much. That makes no sense."

"Half of that mountain came down with him that day, Miss Stanhope. His lungs were bound to be full of the stuff. And he woke up thinking he was me?"

She shook her head. "No, that was my fault. We didn't know who he was and I found the wallet. I just naturally assumed it was his; it was in the pocket of his coat. It said 'J.H. Holliday', so I thought he – "

"Was me," Doc finished for her.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Mr. Maverick. We thought you came looking for him because your brother was dead and you blamed him, or worse – "

"That I wanted to kill him," Bret finished.

Amy looked down at the floor, embarrassed beyond belief. "Yes."

"And you chose to protect him."

"Yes. We had to. He'd just gotten out of bed and started to use the crutch. He was in no shape for a fight."

"He wouldn't have gotten one, Miss Stanhope."

Amy remembered a question she'd never gotten an answer for. "He had a picture of a beautiful blonde woman in his wallet. Do you know who that was, Mr. Maverick?"

Bret blinked once and looked at Doc. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do. "Probably his late wife, Caroline."

Doc would have fallen out of his chair if Bret hadn't grabbed him. "HIS WHAT?"

"His LATE wife."

"Did he get married when he was twelve?"

"She was Samantha Crawford's cousin, Doc, and it's a long story. She's been gone for quite a while."

"How long is quite a while?"

"Four, five, six years."

"I was right. He was married when he was twelve."

Bret turned back to Amy. "So he was here and heard me the day I came looking for him?"

"Yes, and he didn't recognize you at all. He said he didn't know you or your brother."

Silence from Bret, while he thought of one more question. "How long since he left here?"

Gage spoke up. "Two days. Sent him off with my best horse, Noble. He's long gone by now."

"Did he leave any kind of note, or clue, where he might be going?"

"Stay here. I'll be right back," Amy told him, then went running down the hall. She found the note and grabbed it. "Here, this is what he left me." Handing the letter to his brother, she sat back down and waited. Bret read it over, then read it again. When he looked up from the paper, his voice was filled with emotion.

"That's his handwriting." He handed the note back to Amy and put his head in his hands. He made no sound, but his shoulders shook and there were tears of relief and gratitude. When he looked up his eyes were bright and he turned to Doc and grinned, a big, lop-sided Maverick grin. "He's alive, Doc. My brother's alive."

Doc clapped him on the shoulder and left his hand there, grinning himself from ear to ear. "Aren't you glad I convinced you to keep looking?"

Bret swatted at Doc with his hat. "Sure, it was all your idea. Where do you think he'd go?"

Doc was quick to answer that. "Tucson. It's where I'd head to get lost."

"Tucson it is, then."

"You have to stay and eat something," Amy insisted. "That'll give me time to get ready."

"Get ready for what, Miss Stanhope?" Bret asked.

"To go with you, of course," Amy answered.


	22. Tucson on the Southern Route

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 21 – Tucson on the Southern Route

Her father was horrified at the thought of allowing Amy to go to Tucson with two men he didn't know, one of whom was the real Doc Holliday. "Amy, it's not safe."

Bret spoke up. "Your father's right, Miss Stanhope. Tucson is no place for a lady."

Amy shook her head. "Please, call me Amy. Good thing I'm not a lady, then, isn't it?"

"Listen to Bret and your father, Amy. Tucson's not a fit place for anybody, much less a female. I ought to know." Doc was serious, and he didn't allow himself to get that way very often.

"But I'm the only one he knows right now. If he sees either of you before he sees me, he might run," Amy countered.

That was a point neither of the weary travelers had considered. "Could be she's right," Doc allowed. "Course he didn't see me the last time you showed up."

"True," Bret answered. "But you'd scare the devil on a good day."

"And I have on several occasions," Doc came back.

"You two argue this out. I'll be right back," and Amy was gone down the hall in seconds.

"What do you think?"

Gage answered that one. "I don't want her to go."

Bret agreed but disagreed. "Your daughter makes a good point, Mr. Stanhope. If Bart spots me or Doc he might run. What're the odds he'd run from Amy?"

"How do I know she'll be safe?"

Bret couldn't imagine what it was like to be a father and have a child to worry about, but he knew that hopelessness he'd felt during the last year of searching for his brother. "I give you my word, Mr. Stanhope."

"You promise you'll bring my girl back to me safe and sound?"

Bret nodded. "Yes, sir, I promise."

An enormous sigh from Gage Stanhope. "Alright, I don't have much choice. She's gonna go whether I want her to or not. Just take care of her."

Before Bret could answer Cora brought in huge bowls of stew, hot and steaming. "You both take care of my little missy, you understand gentlemen?"

"Yes, ma'am," Doc answered meekly.

Bret nodded as he ate. "Yes, ma'am, we will. Amy and Bart, safe and sound."

Doc couldn't resist one last remark. "You hope."

XXXXXXXX

John rolled away from Sascha and got out of bed carefully. She was sleeping and he didn't want to wake her. He put his pants on, then his shirt, and walked over to the window to stare out into the street while he buttoned it. He'd thought another woman would make him miss Amy less, but it had just the opposite effect. He was more thoroughly miserable now than the night he'd left the ranch. He couldn't continue to do this to Sascha, she at least deserved a man that could give her his full attention. That was never going to happen with John, his heart was too wrapped up in Amy.

What to do? Poker wasn't helping, nor was a woman. Maybe he could learn to tolerate the whiskey taste and drink himself into oblivion. That was not a happy prospect. Maybe it was this place. What did Tucson have to offer if gambling and whoring weren't going to work? Well, he could always give the drinking a serious try.

He found his vest and tie and finished dressing. He hadn't been wearing the shoulder holster and derringer before but he put it on now, out of instinct. He still wasn't wearing a Colt; that might prove too tempting a target for those who wanted to stake their claim to infamy.

He took a last look at Sascha, sleeping so peacefully, and knew he wouldn't come back to the room until she was gone. Whether he'd ever been good at goodbyes or not he couldn't remember, but he didn't like them now. He left and locked the door behind him, headed for the nearest saloon.

That would be Jake's, the one he'd played at two nights ago. He seemed to win everywhere he went, so it didn't much matter where he sat down. Jake's didn't have any saloon girls there this time of day, at least he could drink and brood in peace. There were no poker games going on, so he sat at a table and ordered a bottle. What was he going to do with the rest of his life? If only he knew how long or short that would be. As if to provide an answer to the unasked question, he started coughing. He poured a shot and drank it and that seemed to settle the cough down, at least for the moment. Damn, he still didn't like the way the stuff tasted, couldn't anybody do something about that?

He sat there for almost an hour, alternating bouts of coughing with bouts of drinking; the coughing wasn't getting any better and the drinking was getting worse. Finally somebody started a game and left an empty seat; John picked up his bottle and glass and walked over. "Open game?" he asked, and when the four other men at the table nodded ascent, he sat down.

XXXXXXXX

By the time Bret and Doc finished eating Amy was ready to go. The horses had been fed and watered and Gage had Cooper saddled for his daughter. He followed the three of them outside and kissed Amy on the cheek. "You stay out of trouble, you hear? And you listen to Mr. Maverick and Dr. Holliday and do what they tell you. I won't be happy if you come back dead."

"I promise I won't come back dead, daddy. And I won't bring John – I mean Bart, back that way, either." Cooper was more than ready to go, he hadn't stretched his legs since the last ride out to the mine. They took off down the southern road, the same way 'John' had ridden, and were soon out of sight. If he'd known what they were in for, would he have allowed her to bring the half-dead man home to nurse back to health all those months ago? Could he have stopped her? Would he have wanted to stop her? Given the way everything turned out, he knew the answer was no. Especially now that they knew the real identity of their extended houseguest.

' _Please keep them all safe,'_ Gage thought as he went back inside the house. Since it hadn't been a Maverick that issued the silent prayer, maybe Lady Luck would choose to smile on them this time. Then again . . . . . .


	23. Bartley Jamison Maverick

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 22 – Bartley Jamison Maverick

It took two days of long, hard riding to get to Tucson. Amy proved as adept at sleeping on the trail as Bret and Doc, but all were glad when they reached the 'city' and could get hotel rooms. Amy persuaded the hotel clerk to let her check the register and make sure Bart wasn't staying there. If he caught a glimpse of her or Bret in the hotel without an explanation he might disappear, never to be seen again.

Doc was the only one that could prowl the saloons and hotels looking for him. That was a dangerous task, given Doc's proclivity to sample the whiskey in every saloon before leaving. At the end of the second day they finally hit pay dirt when Doc discovered his 'brother' registered under 'John Holliday' at the Silver Dollar Hotel. It was the middle of the afternoon and Doc sent a message up to the registered room, with no response. The front desk clerk offered that "Mr. Holliday is probably next door at Jake's, considering the time of day."

Doc walked next door and took a long look around. He'd almost decided the clerk was telling him stories when a man at the far table stood and picked his winnings up, put them in his wallet and turned around to leave the saloon. Doc had to stop himself from running up and throwing his arms around the figure, who looked right at him without a flicker of recognition as he walked out the batwing doors. Dressed a little more like Doc would dress and a little less like himself, it was definitely someone he hadn't seen in almost a year – Bart Maverick.

For once Doc didn't even take the time to order a drink. He followed his confused friend out the doors and watched as Bart walked into the hotel and headed upstairs to his room. Doc kept walking, down the street and around the corner to the Tucson Arms Hotel and up the stairs as fast as his legs would carry him. He pounded on Bret's door, room two twenty-six, and then on Amy's, two twenty-eight. Both doors opened at almost the same moment and the occupants didn't need to ask any questions. From the look of Doc's face, they both knew that the missing man had been found at last.

XXXXXXXX

Three very nervous people stood outside room two-fourteen at the Silver Dollar Hotel, Amy strategically placed in front, so that she would be the first person seen when the door opened. Doc and Bret exchanged looks, Bret as nervous as he was the first time Momma had shown him his baby brother.

Amy knocked on the door. At first there was no response, so she knocked again. Finally a muffled voice asked, "Who's there?" and she answered "Room Service."

The door was quickly pulled open. "I didn't order – " and the rest remained unsaid as Bart took one look at Amy and picked her up and kissed her, sweeping her into the room. "What – Why – Where did you come from?" He hadn't been this happy in days. Thank God she hadn't listened to him and had followed him! And then he looked at the door and quickly pulled the derringer. "Who are you? And what do you want?"

Bret stared at the man in front of him. He didn't know whether to laugh and shout with joy or cry bitter tears. His brother Bart was alive – and didn't know who he was. Doc was gripped by similar, albeit not as strong, emotions. And then he glanced at Bret, who he'd grown close to over the past year of the never-ending search, and his heart broke. Bret's face was an almost unimaginable mixture of agony and ecstasy.

The derringer wavered slightly. "Somebody say something," the man holding it commanded.

Finally, Amy spoke. "John, put the gun down. Do you remember Bret Maverick? He came by the ranch looking for his brother? And this is a friend of his. They're with me, John. Can they come in? The three of us have something to talk to you about."

Bart backed up to the other side of the room, taking Amy with him. "Alright, Amy, but I want an explanation." He kept the gun pointed at the two men.

"I think we better all sit down, I've – we've – got a lot to tell you."

He pulled two chairs out from the table. "Amy, take these over to Mr. Maverick and his friend. I'd rather they stay over there until I get some answers."

Doc pushed Bret, who was almost frozen in place, into the room. "He's gotten smarter in his old age," he whispered to the older brother.

Bart pulled out another chair for Amy. "Stay here with me," he told her. Then he looked at the two men on the other side of the room. "Who's gonna explain to me what this is all about?"

Bret seemed in a trance, so Doc started. "A year ago my friend Bart Maverick was in Apache Junction with me. We were trying to shake loose a cowboy who was making us crazy by exchanging identities and convincing him that I was Maverick. So we traded wallets, to have physical proof for the cowboy. We convinced him and laughed about it, then left in the morning for the next town – without giving the wallets back. We were almost halfway across the Superstition Mountains when a rockslide hit. I broke an arm and got knocked out. Bart was separated from his horse somehow and swept down the mountain. When I came to I looked for him but couldn't find him, then rode back to Apache Junction to gather a search party. By the time they got back to the mountains, there was no trace of him. I've spent the better part of a year lookin' for him, along with his brother," and he pointed his thumb at Bret.

"What has that got to do with me?" Bart practically snarled at them.

Doc started to reach inside his coat and Bart nervously pointed the derringer at him. "Whoa, son, I'm just reachin' for a wallet. I've still got his on me." He pulled out the wallet with 'Bart Maverick' engraved on the outside flap.

"So?" Bart asked.

"So he's still got mine. It says 'J.H. Holliday' on the inside flap." Doc threw the engraved 'Bart Maverick' wallet over to the man with the gun. "Take a look at that."

Bart picked up the wallet and looked at it. While he was examining it, Doc continued. "So I understand you have the 'Holliday' wallet in your coat. I'd like to have it back. The contents belong to you, Bart, but the wallet's mine."

Bart dropped into the chair, not believing anything he'd just heard. "And you expect me to believe that?" He looked over at Amy without lowering the derringer. "Do you buy all this?" he asked her.

"Yes, I do." It was not the answer he expected from her.

"Why?"

She was determined to explain it to him. She couldn't begin to imagine what he'd gone through, waking up and not knowing who he was. Until she convinced him he was Doc Holliday.

"Can you remember those first few days after I found you? You didn't know who you were. You didn't remember anything about what happened. I'm the one who found the wallet in your coat and convinced you your name was John Holliday. And there's one more thing. The picture I found in the wallet? The blonde woman that you didn't remember? Do you still have the photo?"

He pulled the wallet out of his coat pocket and opened it. Right inside, just where he'd left it, was the photo Amy was talking about. He took it out from under the flap and tossed it on the table.

"Do you know who that is?" Amy asked.

"Nope."

She turned to Bret and asked the same question. "Do you know who that is?"

Bret nodded and tried to find his voice. "Yes." He shifted his eyes from Amy to Bart. "It's your late wife, Caroline Crawford Maverick."

If Bret expected some kind of a reaction to the news he was sorely disappointed. There wasn't even a flicker of recognition from his brother. "Prove it."

"I can't prove it, Bart."

"Don't call me that," his brother spat out. "My name's John."

Bret shook his head sorrowfully. "No, it isn't. It's Bartley Jamison Maverick. I'm your brother, Breton Joseph Maverick. Our Pappy is Beauregard and our Momma was Belle. We have one uncle named Bentley and another named Micah, and we had an aunt named Jessie. Our Cousin is Beau and our sister's name is Jody. We were born and raised in Little Bend, Texas. We're professional gamblers by trade, and have been most of our lives. You were married once, briefly, to a woman named Caroline Crawford. She was shot and killed in front of you. I've spent most of the last year looking for you. And I have something I want you to see." Bret pulled the picture he'd shown Amy out of his coat pocket, then stood up and took it over to Bart, in spite of the fact that the derringer was still pointed at him. "Here, take a look at this." He handed the photo to Bart, who took it and stared at it, much as Amy had.

Finally, the derringer was lowered. Long minutes passed as they each sat there, all four lost in their own thoughts. Then the former 'John Holliday' spoke, at last. "My name is . . . . .Bart?"


	24. There's One in Every Crowd

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 23 – There's One in Every Crowd

"My name is . . . . .Bart?"

His brother Bret nodded. "Yes."

"And I'm not a . . . . . . gunslinger?"

Bret let out a laugh. "Son, I'm the second slowest gun in the west . . . . and I can outdraw you."

"So I haven't killed anybody?"

"I didn't say that. But you've never killed anybody in a gunfight."

The newly discovered 'Bart' turned to Doc. "And do I know you well, Mr. Holliday?"

"Doc, please. I should think so. You're my best friend. Well, one of my best friends." He made a point of looking at Bret as he said it.

Bart removed the money from the wallet that he now knew didn't belong to him. "I guess you want this back. Sorry for having it so long." He handed Doc's empty wallet back and picked up his own again, slipping both the money and the photo inside. "I have to be honest with you – I don't remember either one of you." He turned back to Amy. "You I remember."

She squealed with delight and practically fell into his arms. "I should hope so," she remarked as he bent to kiss her.

"Well, gentlemen, where do we go from here?"

Bret looked at Doc and Doc shrugged as if to say "Fine with me." "Back to Apache Junction? Your belongings are still there waiting for you."

"With a stop at Stanhope Ranch," Amy suggested.

"Sure," Bart replied, and Bret laughed while Bart gave him a quizzical look.

"I've always said you needed to learn another word to replace 'sure.' It's your second favorite word, after - "

"Coffee!" Bart, Doc, and Amy exclaimed in unison.

"Can we wait until morning to leave?" Bart asked, the prospect of one more night in bed rather than on the ground just too tempting to pass up.

"Absolutely," his newly found brother answered.

XXXXXXXX

They went to dinner together, the four of them, and Bret couldn't stop smiling. It didn't matter that Bart couldn't remember anything prior to being found that day by Amy. His brother was alive, and relatively well, for him at least, and they were going back to the place where it all started. There was no doubt in Bret's mind that his brother would remember everything . . . . . eventually.

Supper was odd. Certain things seemed the same about Bart – his idea that a steak had to be cooked until it was dead, for example, and his rather anemic appetite. Others were different – like drinking wine with his meal. He seemed quieter and more subdued, but that might be attributed to the fact that Bret and Doc spent most of the time telling him stories of their escapades over the years, including their latest, the fiasco in Mexico. Bret delayed telling him the sad news about Beau's wife Georgia, until he could remember her and their time in Montana.

Amy was exhausted from all the excitement and Bart offered to walk her back to the Tucson Arms. Bret and Doc decided to wait for Bart in Jake's, wanting to give the were-they-or-weren't-they lovers some time alone. It was much appreciated by Amy, she hadn't had five minutes with Bart since discovering his true identity.

"There's no reason for you to stay away from me, Bart. You're not Doc Holliday, there aren't going to be gunmen after you." They were walking down the street, hand-in-hand.

"That's true," Bart answered. "But I'm still a gambler."

"An honest one, according to your brother."

"Nice to know it was me winning all those poker games, and not Doc Holliday."

Amy was quiet for a few minutes until they turned the corner and saw the hotel. "Bart, that last day at the ranch . . . . "

"I'm sorry, Amy, I couldn't take advantage of you, and then leave. It wouldn't be fair to you."

She laughed a little, then. "Always the gentleman, aren't you? And I appreciate that, but that was then, and this is now. Wherever you are, I'm gonna be with you. We don't have to wait. I love you, no matter what your name is. I like the way it sounds, anyway. Bartley Jamison Maverick. Very elegant name."

He pulled her close and kissed her. "Then would you mind waiting until my memory returns? I want Bart Maverick, with all his thoughts and ideas and beliefs, to make love to you for the first time. For him to be the only man in your life, ever. Will you wait for me?"

She laughed and pressed close to him. "I will, Mr. Maverick. I will."

He smiled, a happy man at last. "Then let's get you upstairs to bed. You know what your father says – morning comes early." They laughed together, a conspiratorial laugh, and Bart guided her inside and up the stairs to her room. She unlocked the door and stepped inside, playfully keeping him out of her room. "If you'd like me to kiss you goodnight, Miss Stanhope, you're going to have to let me come in. I am not accustomed to kissing young ladies in the hallway."

Amy laughed and opened the door. Bart stepped inside and once again swept her into his arms and kissed her that same tender, sweet kiss that he'd given her the very first time his lips touched hers. She returned the kiss with passion and desire, and when they finally broke apart, both were gasping for air.

"That's enough, Miss Stanhope. Or I'll rescind what I said and my newfound family will wonder what happened to me."

"Yes, sir. Goodnight, Bart."

He gave her an odd look. "Bart. Hmmm. I have to get used to that. Goodnight, Amy."

He closed the door behind him before he could change his mind and he heard her lock it. He was humming as he made his way down the stairs and out into the street. He was still humming as he turned the corner and almost ran headlong into the cowboy that had started to accuse him of cheating at the poker table.

"Well, just the man I've been lookin' for. How goes it, Doc?" Once again the cowboy looked, smelled and sounded drunk. Bart didn't say anything, just stood there waiting for the man to be done with his abuse. "Whatsa matter, Doc, nobody here to try and scare me? Wanna try yourself?" The cowboy was itching for a fight, and Bart knew it. He still wasn't wearing a gun belt.

"Look, friend, I'm not armed. Can't we just go about our own business and forget this ever happened?"

"Sure ya are. I seen that little pea-shooter in that fancy shoulder holster the other day when we was playin'. You can draw that." He paused for just a moment before adding "You're a yellow bellied card cheat."

"I'm not gonna fight you," Bart insisted.

The cowboy started backing up into the street. "Then you're gonna die," he added, as he went for his gun.

Against his better judgment Bart reached for the derringer and actually got it out but couldn't get a shot off before the cowboy's gun fired. The shot was erratic and too high, but caught Bart in the left temple and knocked him down and out.

Bret and Doc heard the gunshot and ran. Doc reached the street before Bret and saw the cowboy standing over Bart, who was lying on the sidewalk. He watched the cowboy cock his gun and aim it right at Bart, and he pulled his own Colt and fired before the cowboy could pull the trigger. The gunman went down in a heap, but Bart just lay on the sidewalk without moving; Bret broke in front of Doc and ran to his brother, yelling, "No, no, no, no, no," the whole way.

Bart was unconscious and Bret lifted his head gently off the ground. He didn't see the wound at first. "Don't you die, don't you dare die, not after I spent a year looking for you," he chastised his brother. Doc came running up behind and saw the blood on Bart's head, which he pointed out to Bret. A man with a medical bag came hurrying up the sidewalk, kneeling down at Bart's side and looking at the head wound.

In just a few seconds, he glanced up at Bret. "You know him?"

"He's my brother, Doctor."

"It's a flesh wound," the doctor informed Bret. "He'll be fine." He looked over at the cowboy. "You?" he asked as he pointed to the body.

"Me," Doc volunteered.

"Aha. Dead?"

"I would certainly hope so. He shot first."

The doctor nodded his head sagely. "Yep, sure looks that way."

The Tucson marshal finally arrived and took one look at the scene before turning to Doc. "Holliday?"

"Yep."

"Self-defense?"

"Nope," Doc answered. "Murder, pure and simple. He shot Bart, I shot him."

"Aha." There seemed to be a lot of that going around. "Witnesses?"

"Me," Bret spoke up at last. Several hands went up in the late-night crowd that had gathered.

"That account accurate?" The marshal was used to things like this happening, all too often.

Just about that time Bart moaned and Bret's attention was drawn back to his brother. "Can't leave you alone for five minutes, can I?"

"Am I dead yet?" the man on the ground asked.

Bret laughed. "Yeah, you're gonna be fine." He looked over at Doc, now leaning against a beam that supported the roof overhang. "Thanks, Doc."

"No problem," answered their friend. "Glad to be of assistance. Didn't spend all this time lookin' for him just to watch you bury him."

"My thoughts exactly," came the reply. "Marshal, any more questions?"

"Nope. Stayin' in town a while?"

Bret shook his head. "We were leavin' in the mornin.' Might be another day, now. We're at the Tucson Arms. Bart's at the Silver Dollar. You need anything – "

"Yeah, not likely, but thanks. Alright, folks, let's break it up. You've seen plenty of shootins'. This is just one more."

Doc looked down at his two friends. "Can we get him up?"

"I think so," came the reply from the oldest brother.

"Ow," was Bart's sole contribution. Doc got on one side of him, Bret on the other, and they pulled Bart to his feet. "That one was yours, Doc," Bart tried to explain.

"Bart, after a while they're all mine," Doc answered.

"Bed or poker?" Bret inquired.

Bart reached up to touch his head and thought better of it. "Bed."

"You heard the man, Doc. Let's accommodate him before he gets into any more trouble."

"Long as he doesn't go back to thinkin' he's me, we should all be just fine."


	25. The End of the Beginning

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 24 –The End of the Beginning

Two days later they were on the road headed north. The morning after the shooting Bart had woken with a splitting headache, courtesy no doubt of the dead man's bullet. Having learned his lesson with aspirin the hard way, he stayed in bed and waited for the pain to dissipate by itself. Bret explained the aspirin allergy and one more mystery was solved.

The three men were happy to bid adieu to Tucson. Bart had made a lot of money there, at considerable risk to his person. Doc had added another body to his already burgeoning count, and Bret had been thrilled beyond belief with the discovery of his brother and then scared to death over the prospect of losing him. Amy had reclaimed the man she loved and then almost had him snatched away by a worthless saddle tramp, so she was just as pleased as anyone else in the group to begin the journey.

They took their time riding north, the only one overly-anxious to go home being Noble. Bret and Doc both admired the gelding that seemed to have grown permanently attached to the young gambler; he'd tolerate someone else saddling him, but heaven forbid if they made a move to ride him. Camping at night didn't require posting a sentry – if anyone or anything got close to the group Noble was alert and skittish enough to wake everyone.

By the third afternoon, the outer edges of the Stanhope Ranch were in sight. It didn't take long before a welcoming committee consisting of Pete, Jess and Sandy had ridden out to greet them, a far sight happier to see Bart then they had been the first time they laid eyes on him. By this time everyone at the spread knew the truth of his identity, and considering his acceptance by the ranch hands, they were glad that he was just a gambler and not Doc Holliday. Doc took no offense at the sentiment; he'd lived with it far too long to be disturbed by anyone's opinion. Once again Bret was amused and tickled to see how easily his brother made friends.

Gage was waiting for the group, but particularly his daughter, on the porch. Amy dismounted from Cooper quickly and rushed to greet her father, who had a big smile and a welcome handshake for the newly renamed 'Bart.' Doc and Bret were next in line for the Stanhope greeting, and to Bret he added a mouthed 'Thank you.' Bret acknowledged the show of appreciation with a tip of the hat, and all proceeded inside, while Cooper and Noble were once again reunited with their stablemates.

"Not quite uneventful?" Gage asked, pointing to the just-beginning-to-heal slash across his temple.

"My last experience as John Holliday," Bart explained.

"What happened to the man that caused that?"

"My latest experience as Doc Holliday," the gunslinger answered.

"Cora has lunch ready, everybody hungry?"

Later that afternoon Gage and Amy were sitting on the porch drinking Cora's sweet tea and discussing the events of the last ten days.

"How'd he take finding out who he really was?" Stanhope asked his daughter.

"Actually very well," Amy replied. "He still doesn't remember Bret or Doc, but little things seem to be making their way back slowly."

"Like what?"

"Well, he remembers a dog he and Bret had when they were kids. The dog's name was 'Whazit' because that's the first thing Bart said when their father brought the dog home. And the words to a song his momma used to sing to them at bedtime. Silly little pieces like that. But not much as an adult. Bret and Doc told him stories about things they've done and places they've been, but nothing seems to strike any kind of a chord with him."

"What does he remember from the rockslide?"

"He remembers his horse stumbling and falling, throwing him off, then not much until he woke up here. What if he never remembers anything more, daddy?"

Gage shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know, daughter. Can you live with that?"

"I guess so. As long as it's not me he can't remember."

"What about marriage?" Gage had hesitated to bring up the subject before, but now that it wasn't John Holliday they were talking about –

"What about it?"

"Don't you want to be married, Amy, and raise a family?"

"Why can't we raise a family without getting married?"

"Amelia Stanhope! That's not the way your mother and I raised you!"

"No, daddy, you raised me to think for myself and respect other people's opinions. And I do. Why can't you?"

Gage wasn't going to argue with his girl, so he switched the focus of the discussion. "What does John – I mean Bart - think about it?"

"I don't know," Amy shook her head. "We haven't discussed it. I know how John felt, but not Bart."

"Are you going to ask him?"

"No."

There was that stubborn streak of hers. "Why not?"

"Because I don't care. I don't want to get married, dad. I don't want a man to tell me what I can and can't do, or what I should or shouldn't do."

"Not even Bart?"

She laughed then, her father trying to get a different answer to the same subject. "Not even Bart."

Gage grew quiet then, willing himself to drop the subject before he and Amy got into an even more frustrating discussion. Speaking of Bart, he emerged from the ranch house with a twinkle in his eye. "Hey, sunshine. How about a ride?"

"Out to our place?"

"Sure. Gage, have you got any more wine?"

So that's where his private supply was disappearing to? "Uh, yes. The old mine?"

Amy blushed. "How did you know?"

Gage laughed, then looked at Amy solemnly. "Your mother and I were young once, you know."

"Let's go. You get the wine, I'll get the horses."

Amy hurried off into the house. "How're you doin' with all this, Bart?"

"I'm alright. Funny to hear 'Bart' instead of 'John.' Sure a relief, though."

"Is it? At least you knew who you were as 'John'. Now – no past?"

"It'll come back or it won't. There's people that can tell me about my life."

"That's true. But it's your future I'm more curious about. No consumption, no dying young – future's whatever you want it to be."

"I still want Amy in my life, Gage. Now I don't hafta run away from her to protect her."

"Don't you?"

Bart looked at her father, puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"You don't have to protect her from anybody trying to kill you. What about from you?"

"Me?"

"What do you do for a living?"

"I'm a gambler, according to my brother."

"Traveling around the country, moving from town to town, never settling anywhere?"

"Pretty much."

"What kind of a life is that for a woman? For a lady? What if there are children? What then?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead."

Gage smiled at the man who loved his daughter. "Something to think about, isn't it?"

Amy emerged from the house, carrying the wine and cups. "Slowpoke, what are you waiting for?"

"My fault, Amy, we were talking."

She looked at her father skeptically. "About?"

Bart jumped in with an answer. "Life."

"Uh-huh," she responded. "Let's get Cooper and Noble."

XXXXXXXX

It was just as peaceful and quiet as the last time they'd visited. This was someplace Bart had never expected to see again, and it was one of his favorite spots. "Remember what we toasted the last time we were here?"

"Yes," she stated. "To the beginning of all things yet to come."

"Everything's different than it was then."

He watched the long blonde curls bounce up and down as she shook her head. "Not everything."

She held her empty cup up and he poured more wine. "Did you see the looks I got from Bret when we had dinner and I drank wine?"

"What was that about, did he tell you?"

"Neither one of us drinks, according to him. At least that explains the way I feel about whiskey. I can live the rest of my life and never touch the stuff again."

"Good. It's nasty stuff."

"Don't tell Doc that."

"Your turn to toast."

He held his cup up. "Hmmm. To our future, whatever it brings."

"Yes," she repeated, "Our future."

They drank and she snuggled against him. He put his arms around her and held her, something he thought just a few short days ago that he'd never be able to do again. "Amy," he breathed into her hair. "There's no reason we can't get married now. What about it?"

"That's what you and my father were talking about!"

"Sort of."

"I don't want to be married, Bart."

"You were serious? You weren't just saying that for my benefit?"

She nodded her head and pulled out of his embrace. "I was serious. Did you think I wasn't?"

"Well, I – yes, I thought you were just trying to give me a way out."

Amy sat up, turning her back on him. "I have no intention of getting married and leaving the ranch."

"Don't you want to go anywhere, see other things?"

"No. I'm happy where I am. I've never wanted to leave the ranch. Everything I need is right here."

"Even if going to those places is with me?"

She hesitated to answer; somehow she suspected her future was riding on the next few minutes. "I – I don't know."

"Amy, look at me."

Slowly she turned back to face him. She could see the questions, the pleading in his eyes. "Are you telling me you don't want to leave here ever? Not even to spend your life with me? I thought you loved me and wanted to be with me."

Her eyes focused on the blanket underneath them. "I do love you, Bart. More than almost anything. But I don't want to move around with no home and no anchor, when I have a perfectly good one right here. Can't you stay here with me? And just go into town to play poker?"

He was silent for a few minutes, while they sat there and watched their plans for a life together fall apart. "It's not what I want, Amy."

"I thought what you wanted was me."

"You are what I want."

"But you have me, right here on the ranch. Here where we can be together, and raise a family, and walk around without worrying about getting shot. Where we're free to be just us, and be together no matter what."

He shook his head, watching everything he thought was within his grasp continue to slip away. "I've been here almost a year. I felt it before, but I wasn't sure what it was. Now I know. Those stories Bret and Doc told – about traveling around, being free to go where the wind takes you. That's what I've been missing. That's what I want. Maybe I can settle in one place when I'm older, but not now. There's too much to do, too much to see. Too many Tucson's and New Orleans and California's – and I want to see the things they told me about. I want to go to places I haven't been, and go back to places I don't remember, and I want you to go with me. Are you saying you can't do that?"

"I'm saying I won't do that. Everything I've wanted my whole life is right here on the ranch. I don't want to go all those places, with people and things I don't know. I'm happy here, and comfortable, and you were, too."

And with a few little words his whole life blew up in front of him. "I'm saying I don't intend to leave here."


	26. Love's a Game of Chance

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 25 – Love's a Game of Chance

Bart leaned up against the paddock fence and watched Noble run with the other horses, free and happy. The way he was until an hour ago.

Bret watched his brother from the porch, where he sat drinking sweet tea. Something was wrong; it was way past obvious. When he'd seen Bart earlier, his brother was cheerful and optimistic, looking forward to the 'new' life he'd been given. Now he was miserable; Bret had seen it in his eyes.

He sat and waited for Bart, knowing enough to let his brother come to him to talk. He would when he was ready. They were leaving in the morning, heading back to Apache Junction, and Bret could only hope that sometime soon Bart would remember his life, and his past, and his brother.

They'd been beyond close. Bret was only two years older, but he'd all but raised Bart after their mother died, and the thought that his brother might be lost to him forever had pushed him forward for almost a year. What would he have done if Bart had actually been dead? He didn't want to consider that life and thank God he no longer had to. But the man that he'd found in Tucson wasn't the man he'd said goodbye to in Corpus Christi, and he mourned the loss of the brother he knew. Oh, Bart was still Bart, but a different Bart. Quieter, more introspective, the young jokester had been replaced by a more serious man, with a different view of the world and everything in it.

At least that man had been happy, joyous even. The one standing at the paddock fence was sad and sorrowful, and Bret could only worry about what was wrong. Had he asked Amy to go with him and been turned down? Worse yet, to marry him? Or had he decided it was too much, given what he didn't know about his life, and broken off the relationship? Or something else he couldn't even begin to imagine?

He could see Bart sigh and turn towards the house, finally catching sight of Bret on the porch. He smiled weakly and headed Bret's way. If Bart was looking to talk Bret would do his best to be non-judgmental.

"Nothin' to do right now?"

Bret shook his head. "Nope, not a darn thing. I spent a year lookin' for somethin' that I finally found, and I'm just sittin' here takin' a break. How about you?"

"Nothin' till we leave in the mornin'." For the first time in a long time, Bret could hear just a little bit of Texas twang in Bart's speech.

He hesitated to ask the question, but the answer would determine which way they headed. "Amy goin' with us?"

Bart's answer was curt. "No."

Okay. "Is she comin' later?"

The next answer was just as terse. "No."

"Somethin' you want to talk about?"

"No. Yes. No. I don't know."

"Okay. When you decide, you let me know." Bret went back to drinking tea and rocking. They passed time in silence for a few minutes while Bart wrestled with his demons privately.

"Bret?"

"Yep?"

"Were we close?"

"Yep."

"Really close?"

"Yep."

"I'm glad."

"Me too." More silence. Finally Bret spoke again. "Was there a point to that?"

Bart sat down on the porch steps. "I'm glad we're leavin' in the morning."

"What happened, Bart?"

"Everything. Nothing. I love her, Bret. And she loves me. But not enough, I guess."

"What makes you say that?" Another long, quiet stretch.

"I asked her to marry me. She said no. I asked her to come with me. She still said no."

"There's more, isn't there?"

"She asked me to stay here. I said no. No, no, no. If this is what it's like to be Bart Maverick I want to go back to bein' John Holliday."

Bret reached down and laid his hand on Bart's shoulder. Bart didn't pull away. "Things'll get better."

"Yeah? You sure?"

"Yep. You sure you didn't wanna stay here with Amy? Her father seems to like you. You could have it all here."

"I've been here almost a year, Bret. I was okay with that until I started listenin' to you and Doc talk about all the places we've been, and I knew I couldn't stay here any longer. I wanna go to all those places. All the places we've been, and all the places we haven't been. San Francisco, and New Orleans, and Denver, and St. Louis, and everywhere in-between. I haven't just lost the last year while I tried to get well, I've lost everything that came before that. Every time my mind reaches for a memory – it's not there. You don't know what that's like."

"You're right, I don't know what it's like. Just be sure you're doin' what you want – and not what somebody else wants."

Bart shook his head and laughed, a hollow and desperate sound. "Believe me, that's what I'm tryin' to do." He laughed again. "If it doesn't kill me first."

"Son, if that rockslide didn't kill you, nothin' will."

"Thanks, Pappy."

Bret looked at his brother long and hard. "What did you just call me?"

"Uh – I don't know. What?"

"Pappy?"

Bart thought about it for a minute. "Yeah, I guess I did. Why?"

"Cause that's what you've always called me when you thought I was actin' more like your father than your brother. You remember anything else?"

The younger man sat and thought before finally answering. "No, that seems to be all there is."

There was the small sound of hope in Bret's voice. "It's a good first step."

"Let's hope it's not the only step."

"It won't be."

"You've got an awful lotta faith in me."

Bret thought about all the things he'd seen his brother come back from — Caroline's death, the trial and near hanging in Montana, the game of 'catch the killer' on the Bayou Belle, the fire at the Double C Ranch, the breakdown in Silver Creek, the almost fatal poker game in Cheyenne — and knew it was only a matter of time. How could he convince Bart of that? "I've got reason to believe in you."

"Yeah? I hope I remember why someday."

"You will. How about a little game of poker? I'll remind you how the Maverick's play cards with each other."


	27. Three Riders and the Way Back

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 26 – Three Riders and the Way Back

It was barely dawn as the three riders made their way up the road. One had come this way a year earlier, barely alive. One had come this way twice, lied to the first time but told the truth on the second trip. The third one had only been down the road recently, and he was perhaps the happiest to be leaving the same way.

Their departure was far more subdued than their arrival had been, only two days earlier. Doc Holliday would be happy if he never traveled this way again. Bret Maverick was thankful his hunch had paid off and he'd finally found his missing brother. And Bart Maverick . . . . . Bart Maverick was a myriad of conflicting emotions.

He'd said his goodbyes the night before. He thanked Pete and Jess and Sandy for the friendship they'd shown him, even when they thought he was nothing more than a professional killer. He and Gage Stanhope had a private conversation about many things, one of which was Gage's willingness to let him recuperate for months on end without expecting anything from him. He saw Amy, but there was little to be said. They loved each other, but each loved something else more.

He didn't sleep, wondering if he'd see her again before they left. Then she came running down the stairs one last time and threw her arms around him, then pulled his head down to hers and whispered something before kissing him. There were tears in her eyes as she fled to her room, and tears in his as he walked out the door for the last time.

So the three horsemen rode in silence, each with his own feelings about leaving Stanhope Ranch. Back the way Bret and Doc had come with a slight alteration – Bart needed to see the spot where he'd been found. Doc had no objections – he was curious about how far down the mountain the slide had beaten and battered his friend. Bret wasn't thrilled with the idea but understood his brother's need to visit the place he'd almost died.

They arrived at the gully on the mountain and Bret pointed out the exact spot where he believed his brother finally came to rest. Doc took a long look but couldn't see the place where he'd been felled by the tree that split in half. Bret, who'd followed the trail from Doc's injury to Bart's stopping point, estimated the distance to be a full mile or more. Doc shook his head in wonder. "Surprised you didn't break every bone in your body," was his comment on the whole unfortunate incident.

"I'm not sure I didn't," Bart offered. "It sure felt that way. How far up did you say you found my horse, Doc?"

"Real close to where I went down. Do you remember what happened?"

Bart shook his head no, but the look on his face told a different story. "I remember she wheeled around, trying to get away from the slide, then she fell and I went with her. That's all until I woke up down here."

"She's buried up there, ya know."

"She is? Up where we went down?"

A nod of the gunslinger's head. "Yep. Broke her neck. She never felt a thing."

"That's where I found Momma's Bible," Bret explained. "Must have come out of your saddlebags."

"Momma's Bible?" Bart asked, apparently not remembering the significance.

"Yep," the dark head nodded. "She taught us to read using that Bible. It almost got destroyed in the fire I told you about at Samantha's ranch. You carried it with you everywhere. I found it right where you went down. It's back in Apache Junction."

"Oh. I don't remember."

"You will."

"Do you want to go up there? Might help you remember."

"Can we? Doc, do you want to stay here? We can pick you up on the way back. It won't be an easy climb."

"I'm sick, I'm not dead. I'll go with ya."

The three set out on the climb. Bart was right, it wasn't easy, especially on foot, but all three made it back to the spot where the year-old odyssey had begun. It was once again fall and there were dead leaves everywhere; it took a little searching, but the grave was finally found. Bart handed Noble's reins to Bret and bent to run his hand over the dirt mound – when he looked up his eyes were full of pain and regret. "She was a good horse. I'm glad she didn't suffer."

"Sure caused you a lotta pain," Doc observed.

' _Kinda like Amy,'_ Bart thought. "It wasn't her fault."

"Nope," Bret volunteered. "Some things just can't be helped."

Doc scoffed. "Well, this all coulda been. If I hadn't been so damn fool stubborn and listened to your brother we wouldn't have been on the mountain. Just to save three damn days I cost us all a year." Not often did Doc admit to regretting anything, much less apologize for it, but that's just what he did now. He turned to Bart with his hat in his hands before saying. "I'm sorry, my friend, that I didn't listen to you. This was all my fault."

Bart clapped his newly rediscovered friend on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Doc. I don't remember a thing." Then he looked over at his brother. "Now that we're up here – we're almost halfway. Let's just finish the trip across the Superstitions."

"Are you crazy?" Doc barked. "And give the mountain a chance to finish what she started? No, sir!"

Both Maverick brothers burst out laughing. "Even Mother Nature's not that vindictive, Doc!" Bart exclaimed.

"You're serious?" Doc asked. When he was met by two heads nodding agreement he threw his hands up in the air. "Alright! I give up. But don't blame me if we all end up dead!"

They continued walking for a while, across the mountain, until the footing got easier and they could ride without risking the horses slipping. Once mounted the effort became a whole lot easier for Doc, while Bret and Bart continued the trek in silence. So much had happened since the last time either was in these woods that it almost seemed sacrilegious to talk.

It was twilight by the time they reached the foot of the mountains and already dark as they rode into Apache Junction. Bart knew he'd been in the town before but nothing looked familiar to him, even when they rode up to the same hotel he and Doc had stayed in on their last night. All three men went in to check into rooms and the hotel clerk looked like he'd seen a ghost.

"Mr. Maverick! Doctor Holliday! You found him alive! Welcome back to the living, Mr. Maverick!"

"Uh, thanks," Bart answered. He had no idea who the clerk was.

"Jimmy, we need three rooms," Bret told the clerk. "As close as possible."

"Yes, sir, Mr. Maverick," came the answer. "How about two fourteen, two fifteen and two sixteen?"

"That'll work. You still have all the belongings I left here the last time I was in?"

"Yes, sir, they're locked up in the manager's office. He'll be in tomorrow at nine."

"In the morning?" Doc asked incredulously. "What an awful time to be awake."

"Come on, Doc, I need some food," Bret complained.

"You always need food," Bart added.

Bret lit up like a Christmas tree. "That's my boy!" he exclaimed.

"I did it again?" Bart asked, assuming his remark about Bret and food was something he'd complained about in the past.

"Yep, you did!" Bret was delighted. "Fifteen minutes in the dining room!"

All three heads nodded and each went up to lay claim to a room. Bart looked around his room, two-sixteen, but nothing seemed familiar. He threw his bag and saddlebags on the bed and went to the wash bowl to rinse off the trail dust. Damn, when was something besides these little snippets of information going to come back to him?

He was back in the dining room first and ordered wine out of habit. Which made him think of Amy. To get his mind off of her, he took the photo from his wallet and stared at the beautiful woman that smiled at him. Why couldn't he remember her? Had he loved her like he loved Amy? More? Less? Longer? Was he going to spend the rest of his life trying to figure that out?

The wine came just as he heard Bret and Doc walking down the stairs. He poured a glass and tasted it – not as sweet as Gage's wine had been, but not as strong, either. He could see the slight displeasure on Bret's face as his brother sat down at the table. Doc, however, picked up an empty glass and poured it full, tasting it and making a different kind of face. "You're a lot more fun than you used to be, Bart," Doc quipped.

"Why, because of the wine drinking?"

"Yes, sir," Doc answered. "When did you start that?"

"I don't remember, Doc. Amy and Gage drank wine, so I tried it. It's not bad."

Bret held his tongue. If Bart would just remember Pappy and all the things he'd taught them – including not drinking at the same time as playing poker. The waitress came over and took their order, then went back to the kitchen to retrieve the coffee pot. "What're the saloon's like in this town?"

"Not bad for a small town," Bret finally said something. "As long as you all don't run into the same cowboy that started the whole identity switch."

"Ugh, don't remind me," groaned Doc. "That was your first taste of life as Doc Holliday, Bart. What'd you think of it?"

"Sometimes it came in handy."

"Oh?"

"Like when I'd win and nobody would accuse me of cheating just because I was Doc Holliday."

"Yeah, that is kinda fun. But then you run into people like our deceased friend in Tucson. That's only fun when you can outdraw 'em."

The memory of the cowboy that just wouldn't take 'no' for an answer had stayed with Bart. All too clearly he remembered the feeling that the encounter would not end well for either of them. He'd been the lucky one.

By the time supper came Bart had lost what little appetite he'd possessed to begin with. He ate what he could stand and left the rest, once again reminding Doc how two brothers could be so alike yet so different. There was one thing he was sure of – if it had been Bret lost and presumed dead a year ago, his brother Bart would have done the same thing he did – spent the rest of his life looking for Bret, if necessary.

Seeing that Bart had given up on his meal, Doc posed a question. "Saloon?"

"No," Bret answered. "Too tired."

"I'll go with ya, Doc," came from Bart.

"Alright, Mr. Maverick. But you let me be me tonight, huh?"

"No problem," answered Maverick the younger. "I'm done bein' John Holliday."

The bill was settled and Bret left for his room, Doc and Bart for the saloon next door, 'Apache Junction Card Palace.'

"You gonna play?" Doc asked his friend.

"Maybe in a while," came the reply. Bart ordered coffee at the bar and Doc found a seat at a table and ante'd up. Doc kept an eye on Bart for a while and then lost track of him as the game progressed. The next time he looked up Bart was gone, and there was no sign of him in the saloon. In a panic, Doc gathered his winnings and rushed outside, only to find Bart with a foot up on the railing, smoking a cigar.

"Aw, Doc, you missed me."

"You – "

"You don't have to babysit me. I'm not going anywhere."

"Not even back to Stanhope Ranch?"

"No. That's done."

"What happened, Bart?"

"A difference of opinion, Doc."

"She wanted to get married and you didn't?"

Bart blew the smoke out. Standing outside, in the dark, he felt . . . . . . something, but he wasn't sure what. "Nope, Doc. She didn't want to get married."

"She wanted to go with you?"

"Guess again, Doc."

"What the hell, Bart? I'm all out of guesses."

"She wanted me to stay there at the ranch with her."

"Forever?"

Bart nodded as he drew on the cigar. "Yeah."

"Coulda been a sweet life."

"What, while you and Bret and my unknown Cousin Beau ran all over the country without me?"

"I don't think Beau's gonna be doin' too much runnin' for a while."

"Why? What don't I know yet?" Bart knew, just from the tone of Doc's voice, that something was wrong.

"It's a long story. Bret'll explain it all." Doc reached in his own coat and pulled out a cigar, followed quickly by a match. He struck the match on his gun belt and lit the cigar. "You were there for almost a year. I figured the wanderlust was gone."

"It was for a while. Then you and Bret came along and told me all the stories about travelin' the country, and I knew I couldn't stay there anymore."

"Sorry. If we'd have known – "

"No, Doc, you did the right thing. I would've made a life with her there, and woken up one day an old man and hated myself for stayin' in one place. And I would've hated Amy."

Doc went into a coughing spasm, and when he'd stopped he turned to Bart and laughed, "At least you would've woken up an old man. I should be so lucky."

"Sorry, Doc. But you know what I mean."

"Yeah. Sorry it didn't work out."

Bart took another draw off the cigar. "You ever really been in love, Doc?"

"Once. When I was fifteen."

"Fifteen?"

"Yep. That was the last time I let myself fall in love."

"Okay. On that note, I'm goin' to bed. Night, Doc."

"Night, Bart."


	28. Eureka!

Death Has Its Price

Chapter 27 – Eureka!

There was a knock on the door and he opened it to find his brother standing there. "Manager's here," Bret told him. "Let's go."

"Where's Doc this mornin'?" Bart asked.

"Same place Doc is every mornin' at this time. In bed, asleep. He didn't come back with you, did he?"

"Nope."

"God only knows what time he went to bed, or what time he'll get up. I think he wanted you and me to do this, anyway. Just in case."

They walked downstairs together, one brother who wanted to remember and one brother who wanted to forget. Jimmy was at the front desk and brightened considerably when he saw the Mavericks. "Good morning, gentleman. Mr. McKinnon just got here this morning. He's in his office." He indicated a door behind the front desk counter. Bret knocked and they heard a voice call "Come in."

Harold McKinnon was a smallish man, with a full head of red hair and a glorious mustache to match. "Mr. Maverick, so happy to see you again. And this must be your brother. Well, we're all so glad that he found you. He and Doctor Holliday were quite beside themselves looking for you. Please, have a seat."

They sat in the chairs in front of his desk, and he produced a box that Bart could see contained a set of saddlebags and a black, leather-bound book. "You have a receipt for me to sign, Mr. McKinnon?" Bret inquired.

"Yes, sir, I do, right here." The man handed Bret a piece of paper which he signed for the box of possessions.

"Here ya go, Bart," and Bret gave him the box. "Everything in here is yours. Thanks, Mr. McKinnon, you made this a whole lot easier than it could have been otherwise." Bret rose and shook hands with the manager. Bart did the same, then picked up the box and left the way they'd come in.

"Sure didn't leave much behind, did I?" Bart asked his brother as they went back upstairs to Bart's room.

"More than some folks," Bret told him.

"What if I don't ever remember my past, Bret?" There was worry, and fear, and doubt in Bart's voice. He set the box on the bed. "What if I'm like this forever?"

"Then we'll make new memories to replace the old ones." He grabbed his brother by the arms and held on, ready to shake some sense into him if necessary. "IT. DOESN'T. MATTER. All that matters is you and me and the rest of our family. We've got all our lives for you to remember. Understand?"

"I got it, Brother Bret." As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew he'd said them before.

Once again Bret looked delighted. "I've been hopin' to hear that, Brother Bart."

He turned loose of his brother then, a big smile on his face. "Let's see what you used to carry, shall we?"

"You haven't looked? You've had this stuff all this time and you haven't looked at it?"

"It's not mine."

"What if you hadn't found me?"

"Ah, but I did."

Bart sighed. Somehow he knew this was Bret Maverick logic and there was no arguing with it. He picked up the black leather book. He assumed it to be his mother's Bible, and he opened the inside cover. On the first page, there was an inscription – faded but readable _. 'To my beautiful, bewitching Belle. On our_ _wedding day. Forever yours, Beauregard.'_

Belle. His mother. Beautiful, bewitching Belle. He had a flash of memory and he saw her for a moment, the way she'd looked before she got sick. She had dark hair and darker eyes, and the most dazzling smile he'd ever seen. She held a little boy, no more than two or three years old, his arms reaching for her neck and snuggled against her bosom, and he knew it was him. It was so real, and such a jolt, that he dropped abruptly to the bed and clutched the Bible to his chest. He gasped and caught his breath, fighting to get air into his suddenly deflated lungs.

Something at the window had caught Bret's eye; he had his back turned to the bed and didn't see the reaction from his brother. When he turned back around he was surprised to see Bart gripping the Bible, tears running down his face. "I saw her, Bret, I saw momma."

"Anything else?" his brother asked anxiously.

"Isn't that enough?"

Bret nodded his head, acutely aware of how emotional the glimpse of their mother had been for Bart. "That's enough, little brother. That's more than enough."

XXXXXXXX

The rest of the box had been set aside, to be dealt with later. Bart was so emotionally drained by the vision of his mother that both he and Bret decided to wait before looking at anything else. "I think you should be clear-headed and clear-eyed when you tackle the rest of your belongings," his brother offered as an explanation, and Bart agreed with him.

Later that morning Doc finally appeared downstairs in the dining room as the Mavericks were finishing a late breakfast. "Well, good morning Bret and mystery guest. Which man do we have with us today, Pre-Bart or post-Bart?"

"Very funny, Doc. Sit down and have some coffee with your whiskey."

Doc surprisingly did as directed. "Any change this morning?"

"I remembered my mother," Bart answered.

"I take it that was a much more joyous event than my remembering would have been," Doc offered. "Anything else?"

'Hungry," Bret commented.

"Ah, yes, the well-known Bret Maverick appetite."

"I can't help being hungry," Bret snapped back. "You live on whiskey and Bart lives on coffee. I happen to prefer food."

"Play nice, boys," Bart advised. He looked at his brother. "Now that you can't complain about being hungry anymore, I'd like to go back to that box upstairs."

Bret utilized his napkin and nodded at his brother's request. "Works for me. You wanna come, Doc?"

"No, gentlemen, I leave the hard labor to the two of you. Now that he who was lost has been found, I have some poker playing to take care of."

Bart stood and clapped Doc on the shoulder. "Thanks for everything, Doc." He dropped money on the table and started out the dining room door.

"That goes double for me, Doc. I couldn't have done it without you." Bret added as he followed Bart up the steps and back through the hotel.

Bart stopped as he unlocked the hotel room door. "What if nothin' happens?"

Bret shrugged. "Nothin'. Life goes on. We decide what we're doin' next and go do it." He put his hand on his brother's shoulder. "I'm just not lettin' you outta my sight, that's all."

"Ever?"

"Ever."

"What if one of us gets married?"

"Ever!"

They laughed as Bart opened the door. The first thing either of them saw was the box, now devoid of everything but the saddlebags.

Bart walked to the bed and sat down, gingerly removing the bags from the box they sat in. He handled them as if they were a rattlesnake. Finally, he could put it off no longer and took a deep breath, opening one incredibly carefully. Inside was a Charles Dickens book, _'Great Expectations,'_ and a _'Book of Poker According to Hoyle',_ and two white handkerchiefs. Nothing else. Bart looked over the objects, handling each as if they were made of gold. Then looked up at his brother. Nothing.

"Sorry, Bret, nothin's familiar."

His brother tried not to react. What effect would it have on Bart if he knew how disappointed Bret was? "There's a pocket under a flap on the strap. Look there." Bart looked at his brother questioningly. "Never mind how I know it's there, just look."

Bart did as he was told and found the pocket. He reached inside and pulled out a small black bag, opening it carefully. Inside was a pair of black opal and gold cuff links – the same pair momma left to her youngest son when she died. He unwrapped them and examined them protectively, somehow knowing how valuable they were to both brothers. He shook his head. "They're beautiful. Where'd they come from?"

Bret sighed, then sat down in the chair next to the bed and told his brother the story of momma's gift and how he'd lost and then regained them for his brother. When he was through Bart looked at him with a new-found respect and a profound sense of sadness. "I'm sorry she left them to me and not you. That doesn't seem quite fair."

Bret almost chuckled. "That's alright. I didn't realize it at the time, but she left me something worth just as much, if not more – you."

"I wish I could say I remember them – but I don't."

"That's understandable – you've got another whole side."

Bart unbuckled the bag and reached in, not sure what he'd find. Pretty mundane possessions, thus far. What he touched was soft and rough at the same time, and it seemed to 'squish' under his fingers. He looked down at the object he'd withdrawn from the saddlebag. A dirty and bedraggled hand-made doll, with one eye and a lopsided, sewn-on smile and an 'end-of-the-world' look. And he remembered everything.

Caroline, the ranch, Lon Tenley and Thurgood Schafer, six wild months in Mexico, Silver Creek and Jody Mayfield, the trial and Bret's last minute rescue, their Cousin Beau, Anderson Garrett and his daughter Rose, the stabbing that nearly killed him, Samantha Crawford and their 'almost' love affair, the dream about Caroline and their twins, the riverboat voyage from hell, Millie Ridgeway and the attempted poisoning, the earthquake in Mexico, the rockslide in the Superstition Mountains, Pappy, Momma, and Bret. Most of all Bret.

"Bart, Bart, look at me, Bart. Breathe. C'mon, son, breathe. Don't do this to me." It took him a minute to realize that Bret was gently slapping his face, trying to wake him up or bring him around or something, and he was lying on his bed and his brother was bent over him, looking terrified. "Bart, wake up. Say something. Bart."

Bart grabbed his brother's hand. "Bret."

Bret stopped in mid-slap. Something in the way Bart had just said his name was different, with love and affection instead of confusion and doubt.

"Bart? Is it you? Is it really you?"

"Breton Joseph Maverick. Brother Bret."

Bret grabbed his 'little brother' up off the mattress and wrapped him in a giant bear-hug. "Everything?" was all he could ask.

"I think so," Bart answered.

"Momma's name?" Bret questioned.

"Belle."

"Uncle Ben's housekeeper?"

Bart laughed. "That's easy. Lily Mae."

"What hand did you beat Seth Johnson with?

"Four queens."

"And the chicken we set on fire?"

"We? You mean you and Beau!"

"Bart!"

XXXXXXXX

They were sitting quietly in Bart's room, some several hours later. They'd shared the news with Doc, who'd just smiled that 'Doc' smile and gone right back to playing poker. After returning to the hotel they spent the rest of the day talking, reminiscing and catching Bart up on all the things that had occurred in the last year. Including the sad news about Beau's wife, Georgia. "How's he doin'?"

"Not good," Bret relayed. "But I got a wire from Jody just before Doc and I left for the Stanhope Ranch. She said he decided to stay in Silver Creek for a while, at least until spring. And that he was starting to settle down some. It's gonna take time, Bart, you know that."

"Yeah, I do." Bart was silent for a minute, thinking. "Bret, I wanna go home."

"To Dry Springs?"

Bart shook his head. "No. To Texas. To Little Bend. To see Uncle Ben and Lily Mae. And to make amends with Pappy. I've been too hard on him for too long. I want him to know how I feel about him. It's long overdue, don't ya think?"

"Yeah. I do. You're sure? Back to Texas?"

"Brother Bret, I've never been more sure of anything in my life. How much trouble can we get into in Little Bend?"

The End

Tomorrow – A One Shot Follow-Up

'Death's Aftermath – Joplin'


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